I Need a Medic
by Gorshenin
Summary: AU. Army!Brittana. It's wrong on so many levels. It's fraternization, it's unprofessional, it could cost you your rank, your career, and worse-hers; but you can't stay away. You need her and it has nothing to do with the palpitations in your chest.
1. FM 21 Dash 18

AN: I'm writing this for me more than I'm writing it for any sort of great reader experience.

If you don't understand a certain turn of phrase or jargon, I'm truly sorry, I've tried to make it as reader friendly as possible—just in case. Really I'm only posting it as a convenience to one of my readers.

And on that note, I'm not really happy with the quality of Army!Brittana fic out there. This is a _tad_ more detailed than just the fluffy reunion scene, yet incredibly at the whim of my own personal experience, imagination, and knowledge.

Thanks.

— Gorshenin.

* * *

FM 21-18: Procedures and Techniques of Foot Marches.

* * *

You hate Fort Campbell and how it's so hot. It's literally four in the morning and you're already sweating.

And you're just standing here.

You haven't even started moving and you're already sweating.

It's gross.

They call you all to the line, because they finally decide to get this over with and you move with the rest of the herd to the starting line on the street. A random sergeant trying to be high speed moves through you all, checking your Camelbak for water, your ruck for the right amount of weight, and making sure the glow stick tucked into the band on your helmet is visible.

Lord knows it would be a _tragedy_ if you got hit by a car.

When he inspects you he raps his knuckles against the front of your protective vest and you realize he's making sure you have your ballistic plates in. You take offense because no one else was checked and you know he assumed you would try to lighten your load. What you don't know is, if it's because you're a girl or if he just thinks you're a bad solider.

You'll take both; to some people they're synonymous.

The grip on your dummy training rifle tightens as the whistle blows and you take off just a second behind everyone else. This twelve mile road march is a qualifier for Air Assault School and you need to be on that roster. Not because you want to go, because you don't, and not because you think it's a useful school, because it's not.

You want to go so you can graduate and finally be able to pin the shiny little badge to your uniform like the assholes in your company that make it such a big deal. They have such a superiority complex, it's unreal. You'd rather go to Airborne School, because jumping out of planes is badass and makes repelling from a helicopter look super lame.

You don't want to be a dope on a rope, but you know they'll respect you a little more if you're wearing that badge. So if you have to go to a bullshit school to keep from doing pushups every time someone drops an Air Assault coin, you'll play along.

You hit the gravel trail on the other side of Market Garden Road and this is normally when everyone stops their run and starts rucking, you keep running though. You hate it but you have to work twice as hard on these things because you're so short. Your little legs cover half the distance in the same amount of time, you figured this out a while ago. To make up for your shortcomings you end up running most of the twelve miles. You have this run/walk cycle down to an art.

"Going for a nice run?" someone calls as you pass.

He thinks it's amusing that you're shuffling along at the same speed as he's walking, damn his long legs.

"Let's see who finishes first," you pick it up to get away from him and pull ahead.

By mile eight your run/walk has turning into a jog/shuffle/walk. That's fine, you're still making great time, and there's only a handful of people ahead of you, a lot more are behind you. You're the lead female and that means something to you. Wiping some sweat off of your brow, you slow to a walk and take in a deep breath. Fuck it's hot. Your helmet is getting annoyingly heavy on your head, and your thighs are chaffing from the seam of your uniform. You should have worn spandex but it's too hot out.

The medic's field ambulance is rolling along the vehicle trail just waiting for someone to fall out. As it passes you catch a glimpse of the senior medic sitting in the back, one leg hanging out and holding the door open with her hand. She's not even wearing her helmet, which is a safety requirement in military vehicles. You find the idea that a medic is being unsafe ironic and it gives you a boost to start running again. You're sure if any of the senior sergeants saw her like that she would get scolded, but hey, she outranks you and sometimes it's astounding what medics can get away with.

Maybe you should think about reclassing.

You didn't really have a plan when you joined the Army, you couldn't afford to go to college and the recruiter made this seem like an end to a mean. You still haven't decided if he was completely full of shit, but you know that you sort of hate your job. He sold you on the idea by asking if you had ever gotten pulled over, that was an obvious yes. Then he asked how you would like it if you were the one writing the ticket.

You liked that idea at the time.

Now, being a Military Policemen, or Policewoman, is a lot of work, long hours, and you never get any of the garrison four day weekends because you have to pull shift. You hate it. Maybe if you liked your unit better, things would be fine. But you don't. They're a bunch of assholes.

Less than a mile to go and you're beyond the point of lucid thought. If a car passed you might take a shot at jumping in front of it. The only thing you can focus on is trying to keep your breathing steady and the guy in front of you. You hate that guy, about twenty meters in front of you, shuffling along like he owns the place.

A Drill Sergeant once told you that the best pacer is someone you hate. All you need to do is find them, and get angry, your pride will take care of the rest.

It's there, inside of you, your pride. Telling you that this isn't shit, you're fine, all you have to do is finish out this mile. You can already see the start point on the other side of the field. The sun has finally come out and while that isn't making it any less hot, it's a sign that at least two hours have passed and you're still going strongish.

Twelve miles in three hours, that wasn't that bad. You can do it; you will do it.

You tell yourself that you hate the guy in front of you so much, which might be true, you can't tell who he is from here. All you know is that you're better than him and you want to beat him. You need to step it out, overtake him, show him up, qualify for this stupid school and finally get that stupid badge and finally be apart of the club.

You're so busy conjuring your hateful motivation that you fail to see the large stone mixed in with the loose gravel of the trail.

"Fuck—"

You're on the ground before you realize what happened, a shooting pain in your ankle.

"You alright, Lopez?" some asshole in a gator drives up to you after seeing your fall.

"Fine," you reply, embarrassed and lost in an dose of pride that was making every fiber of your body move towards the finish line as fast as it can.

Scrambling back to your feet, you use your weapon, buttstock into the ground, to help yourself to your feet. When you try to step off, because that guy has doubled the distance between you and you need to catch up, there's so much pain in your ankle that your knee gives out and you fall to the ground again.

"Shit, I'm calling the medic."

"No!" you check yourself, "I mean, I'm fine Sergeant, I just need to—"

"You need to sit the fuck down and wait for the medic. You're out, Lopez."

He said it like it was the final say in the matter and, of course, it was. Listening to him on the radio, you try not to get too worked up. You try to ignore the rest of the qualifiers pass you along the trail. By the time the field ambulance rolls up _that guy_ made it to the finish line, and if it wasn't for your carelessness, you would have been with him.

"Hey," the senior medic jumps out of the back of the truck, "what do we got here?"

"Lopez messed up her ankle," he gestures to you needlessly, there's no other soldiers sitting one the side of the trail like a dejected castaway. "Look, I'm heading over to the start point, bring her in alright?"

"I'll take care of it," she says with a nod, walking over to you. She waits until he's driven away to crouch next to you, one hands resting on her knee, the other readjusting her patrol cap. She looks at you with blue eyes that make you think she actually cares when she asks, "Are you alright?"

You have to look away because there's something in her tone that makes you think that she's not asking about your ankle. Maybe it's the moisture on your face that you're convinced is only sweat—there's no way it's tears.

"I'm fine," your voice is horse and dry from breathing so hard during the eleven and three quarters of a mile that you actually finished. Too bad that wasn't enough.

"Take off your gear and tell me what happened," she glances at the foot you've been subconsciously guarding with your hands. You give her the cliff notes while you take off your ruck, vest, and fish your patrol cap out of your cargo pocket so you can take your helmet off too.

You're very excited to see that you've sweat through your uniform top and you can't even start to imagine what your hair looks like. She looks like she always does, cool and collected. Her blonde hair pulled back into a bun that always had at least one curl sticking out. Her patrol cap is cocked back on the top of her forehead in a manner that's gotten her into trouble every now and then, but usually she is good about only doing it when it's just her and the soldiers.

Staff Sergeant (SSG) Pierce is one of the few female Non-Commissioned Officers in your company and leads the medical section. She's quiet, but not in a timid kind of way, more of a, only saying what she needs to kind of thing. She doesn't talk to hear her own voice and you like that about her. And from what you've heard from people in Headquarters platoon, she's a really fair leader and makes sure to take care of her people. You wish your first line supervisor was interested in taking care of you.

"Hey Flan," she calls to the driver, "come out here and help me get Lopez into the back of the truck."

"Moving, Sergeant,"

Specialist (SPC) Flanagan, the junior medic in the company, is quick to move around the truck. Opening the double doors of the field ambulance and popping the cord to the staircase so it falls down into the working position.

"Can I touch you?"

You blink at the question. No one has ever asked you that before. The Army can be rough and people are quick to rush in and put you where they need you. You're shoved into lines, through ranges, out of buses. You've never been asked before someone made contact with you, hell even in some medical appointments, it felt like the doctor was just trying to get it over with.

Your stomach turns a little. Is there a reason she asked? Would she asked anyone else? Does she know you're—

No. She was asking to be polite, because she's polite, and professional.

"Just to get you into the truck," she continues when you still haven't answered.

You can feel yourself blush because you're staring like an idiot, "It's fine."

"Alright," she moves herself behind you, "please, don't put any weight on your injured foot, I won't let you fall. Flan, could you grab her gear and throw it in my seat?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

That was another thing SSG Pierce was know for, being polite to her soldiers; she asks, she doesn't order. It was an implied order obviously, because no one would ever say no, but it's nice that she tries.

He takes your stuff as she slips her arms under your armpits and you hope you don't smell as bad as you look. She doesn't seem to care that you're soaked with sweat, maybe its just the medic in her, medics are used to gross stuff. She lifts you into a standing position with an ease that makes your stomach flip as if she had dropped you. Carefully, she's able to get you into the back of the ambulance without putting your foot on the ground, all the litters have been tucked away and you sit on the bench were she wants you.

"Call the start point and see if there's anyone up there that needs to be checked out," she tells Flanagan as he appears at the double doors.

"Did you want me to shut these, Sergeant?"

"Yeah, in case we have to move, thanks."

Once the doors shut there's a moment where the only thing that can be heard is your breathing, still heavy from the ruck march. The harsh florescent lights completely wash out her skin tone but you think it's still really... nice skin. You're watching her move along the bench opposite from you, unzipping her large aid bag and laying it out flat.

She looks back at you, "Can you take off your boot?"

You can feel a throbbing against your boot and you really don't want to take it off, but you start moving anyway. Even your laces are moist from your body perspiration and you've never felt so unattractive in you life. It's almost as embarrassing as falling out with only a quarter mile to go. You heave off your boot with a choked groan, it hurt as much as you thought it was going to.

"And your sock," she takes the boot from you and scoots forward in the bench so she can get a good look.

"My feet are probably really gross," you mumble gruffly.

"I've seen worse," she's smiling but if what you've heard around the company is true, she's not joking. You eye the deployment patch on her shoulder as you rip off you sock, with it comes a painful bit of skin that you wish was still attached to your heel.

"Can I?"

She's asking if she can touch you again, but this time you almost say no because her hands are too pretty and delicate to touch your gross, bleeding, mangled foot.

You nod because it's all you can do.

After a dose of hand sanitizer, she's quick to take your foot in her hand. Gently, with a practiced care, and firmly enough for you to realize she quite comfortable with other people's feet. It's oddly intimidating. Medics are a weird breed. She makes a note of the blister on your heel with a muttered, "Jeez."

You haven't heard a word like that in a really long time. There's something about it that's innocent and good natured in a way that you've never been. Sometimes you feel like the manner that people talk in the Army is harsh and unforgiving, the more swear words you can throw in the better, and don't even bother keeping up a vocabulary level, all the Army needs is acronyms.

"They're telling me someone needs and IV," Flanagan calls back from the driver's seat.

SSG Pierce rolls her eyes at that, "tell them to drink water and we'll be right there."

He goes about his task, and she focuses back on hers. She's detailed with her examination, but it was hardly necessary, your ankle is already turning a nasty color and swollen.

"Push against my palm," she directs, and you try to point your toes against her hand but can't without it hurting too much. She can see the cringe on your face and tells you to stop. "Well, your range of motion is crap, and you can't put any weight on it."

Funnily enough, you had that figured out.

"I want you to go to the hospital today for an xray, and you're going to have to go on profile until—"

"I can't," you say it before you can think better of it, "I can't go on profile—" Her eyes skate up to yours from where she was wrapping your ankle with an ace wrap and you amend the statement to finish with, "—Sergeant."

"You're not going to Air Assault School on an ankle like this."

Your hate motivation is coming back in the worst way, morphing into a hate guilt trip about how stupid you are for not seeing the rock.

"You need to let this heal so you can go next cycle," her tone is a little softer and you suck your bottom lip into your mouth and look at the ceiling. You want to cry.

"It's not just—it's not just that stupid school," you mumble because there's no way Flanagan can hear you from the driver's seat, the truck is so loud, "I don't want to be that stupid girl in the back of the formation because I'm a broken piece of shit. Our PT test is coming up and I need to—"

"Brushing off this injury isn't going to get you any closer to proving yourself."

You hate that she just called you out like that. Half the time you try to act like you don't care because for the most part, no matter how hard you work, you're still running in circles. You're still not Air Assault qualified, you don't have the highest physical fitness test (PT Test) scores, you only got the expert marksmanship badge by one point.

You're still just a girl with a bad attitude.

Apparently, she had noticed the times when you actually tried, or maybe she had been in your shoes once. You steal a look at the rank on her chest, wondering if it's easier for medics. You want her rank, you want the stripes instead of the shield you're wearing. You wish the people around the company treated you like they treat her.

She finishes wrapping your ankle as the ambulance pulls into the parking lot you started at.

She breaks an icepack and hands it to you, "Put that on your ankle, who's your NCO?"

You give her the information she wants and she climbs out of the truck, telling Flanagan to check on the rest of the soldiers, the ones that actually finished the ruck march.

After getting your xray, you find out that it isn't broken, but the amount of bruising and swelling suggests a crazy bad sprain. They give you a profile and to add insult to injury you're put on crutches.

There are snickers and jeers as you hobble your way down the company hallway to get to the medic's office. You already checked in with your NCO, and he told you to take a copy of your profile to them because they track that stuff.

The door is open, it's always open and welcoming, very unlike your platoon office that feels like a shark tank.

She looks up from her computer as you walk in, a smile comes to her face and for a moment you think she's going to make fun of you too.

"I knew you were smart," she stands to meet you because she knows you're inconvenienced to move. "Do they need you right now? Or can you hang out for a second?"

"I have time, Sergeant," you mumble, honestly you're looking for an excuse to not go back there.

"Good, go ahead and sit down," she takes your profile from you, and you sit in the chair next to her desk awkwardly shuffling with your crutches.

It's a larger office than your platoon office, because medics have a lot of... stuff. The room is lined with wall lockers, a shelves of medical supplies, litters standing in the corner, boxes on top of everything. The second desk in the office is SPC Flanagan's, and you're jealous that he has his own desk. His own space in this company that he can almost appear to be an equal.

"So this profile is for three weeks," she reads it and is making a copy while she talks. "Just a sprain then?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"You don't have to do that," she laughs quietly, "not in here, this is a safe space. I don't do all that stupid Army crap."

You don't know what she means and you don't want to offend or disrespect her so you just keep quiet. You watch her fingers tap on the side of the copy machine as she waits for her papers to print, the stray curl from her bun was waving in the breeze coming from the window. You're not sure how she's able to make that uniform look so... slimming? But it fits her thin frame in flattering manner. Your uniform makes you look like you've gained twenty pounds.

When she's done making copies she moves back to her desk, pulling out the big book of profiles, and flips to the blue tab, "Third platoon, right?"

If it wasn't her job to know you would be flattered, "Yes, Sergeant."

She glances at you because she just told you that you don't have to do that, but some habits die hard.

"I like your platoon," she admits, tucking a copy of your profile into a document protector, "it has the least amount of profiles, and not because they want to be _hooah,"_ she says the word with a little eye roll, "and tough it out."

You're not really proud to be one of the few people on profile. Now you feel guilty for hurting your platoons reputation.

"Now," she put away her book away and looks at you, "Specialist Lopez."

Swallowing the tightness that has sprang up in your throat, you make sure you keep her eyes.

"I would really like it if you stayed off your ankle for at least two of your three week profile. Think of it as a favor to me."

She says it like it's an option, and you nod because it's that or give her another _yes, Sergeant._

The smile she sends you is genuine, and you have to drop your eyes to her lips just to appreciate it. Then you drop your eyes altogether because you can't be staring at her lips. That's just wrong on so many levels.

"I asked around, and the dates have been released for the next Air Assault School after your recovery time," she shuffles through some papers on her desk, honestly the whole thing is a mess, she finally finds the paper and hands it to you. "I made up a recuperation schedule for you, and I've already given it to your platoon. It took a little convincing, I'm not going to lie, but I got your squad leader on board."

Your name is typed at the top, and after the two week profile phase, there's about three weeks of recovery PT drills to get you into shape for another qualifier. You look up at her, asking yourself why you weren't a medic so you could have worked for someone that actually cares about soldiers.

"Now, it's totally important that you stay off of it and do all the ice and compression stuff I put in there so you can be healed in time, so hopefully," she gives you one more smile, excited that she found a way to get you to follow your profile limitations, "we'll be able to get you your wings."

You stay off your ankle like your life depended on it, hobbling everywhere you go with your head held high. Each time she passes you in the halls, or during formation, she gives you this proud little smile, that make you feel like this wasn't about Air Assault School, or even getting better. It makes you feel like you are doing this just for her... and maybe you are.


	2. AR 670 Dash 1

AR 670-1: Wear and Appearance of Army Uniforms and Insignia.

* * *

"Don't get lost."

"We wont," SSG Pierce replies as she shoulders her assault pack.

She wasn't being cocky, or sarcastic, she was simply stating a fact. She's confident in a way that's causal and implied; she doesn't make a big deal of herself. You want to be like her when you're a sergeant. You want to be so badass that you don't even have to worry about proving yourself. Now that's badass.

"If you're not back in two hours we're sending someone in after you," a senior sergeant jokes from the duty van, "can't have our medics getting lost in the woods."

"At least they'll know how to treat hypothermia."

"I have a radio if it comes down to that," she's taking them at face value to keep herself professional.

You watch her lead her soldier to the start of the land navigation course that your company is training at today. The medics are the last group from Headquarters Platoon to enter the site. They have a list of the grid coordinates they need to find with just a map, compass, and protractor. When they get to the grid point, there should be a placard there with a number sequence, they'll write it down and bring their list back to see if their navigation had been accurate.

You wished you could be with your team, but you're broken, so you're hanging out by the radios just in case someone really does get lost.

She hands the compass and map to SPC Flanagan, "You're in charge here," she says softly, out of ear shot of the sergeants in the duty van. "I'm just up for a nice walk."

You did notice that she is the only staff sergeant going through the course that isn't a squad leader. You wonder if it's because Flanagan needs help, or if she wants to get away from the cackling Operations Sergeants that were giving her a hard time just now. Whatever the reason, you respect her for it. It's easy to sit around and do nothing; it's kind of cool of her to go through the course with her soldier. Flanagan get's his bearings and they walk off, you see her cock her patrol cap back just before disappearing into the wood line like everyone else.

Eventually, people start coming off the course, huffing past you to get to the duty van and check the accuracy of their points. There's been a string of people who have been way off target. You're proud to see that your squad did alright for themselves and you wish that you had been with them. A lot of people have disgruntled looks on their faces; cold, and tired, and ready to get out of the field.

A lot of people are pissed because they failed and would have to come back next week to retest.

An hour later you hear them before you see them. It nearly surprises you that you can recognize her laughter. They come tearing out of the woods like bats out of hell, catching everyone's attention and you stifle the smile that comes to your face when you see hers.

"Sergeant Pierce!" a Platoon Sergeant calls over from the duty van, "What do you think you're doing?"

Her smile fades as she straightens her cap, but it doesn't disappear entirely, "Getting Specialist Flanagan here ready for Pathfinder School."

"Psh," he rolls his eyes at her, "like his scrawny ass could make it."

"He'd have to survive Air Assault School first."

All traces of the smile disappear instantly, and you feel a wave of secondhand insult on their behalf.

"Let's see if his work proves otherwise," she takes the clipboard from her soldier and marches up to the duty van, holding it to the grader. Flanagan hangs back a little, realizing that this isn't his battle. You can see the nerves in his eyes, because suddenly SSG Pierce's pride is riding on him.

"They're all wrong."

You watch the disbelief wash over her face, "That can't be right."

"I'm looking at it right here," he taps the backs of his fingers against the clipboard, "they're all wrong."

"There's no way," she shakes her head, "I checked all of his work."

By this time everyone is watching the senior medic arguing with a senior sergeant about land-nav points.

"Maybe _you're_ not as good as you think you are Pierce, you'll both come out to retrain next week."

"You must have the wrong grading sheet," she presses, determined, "ours is two-alpha."

He glances down, just to be sure that it was the right one, and you see it in his eyes; she's right and he had been using the wrong sheet. His eyes skate around, knowing that everyone has realized his mistake too. Without a word he pulls out the right sheet and sure enough, "You're a go at this station, now get out of my face."

He nearly throws the paper in her face.

"Yes, Sergeant," she takes the paper and waves at Flanagan, together they walk over to where headquarters platoon has been congregating.

"How did you know we weren't wrong?" you hear him ask under his breath.

"Because you kicked that courses butt. You did really good today, Flanagan. I had total faith," she smiles at him, punching his shoulder. "I'd follow you into the woods any day."

More than one soldier would stand up and say that they would follow her to war, and that's a huge compliment. You sure feel that way.

She catches you watching and you drop your eyes back to the clipboard in your hand and write down their return time. You have twelve people still on the course and it's your job to keep track of that because you can't do anything else. The medics beat a lot of the Military Police teams that started before them. You think it's because medics have to be smarter than grunts like you.

Moments later, you notice the worn boots on the ground next to your folding chair. You don't have to look up to know who it is, you've had her boots memorized since forever. There's a few speckles of red dye along her laces from the fake blood medics use during training, scuffs on the toe from doing real work, and some blotches of a darker color that you want to assume is actual blood dried into the tan leather.

Experience radiates off this staff sergeant and you feel like she's a world ahead of you. You've never deployed before, you don't have blood stained boots, you've never shot your weapon outside of a range. You should be thankful for all of that, but you want to have your own 'no shit, there I was' stories.

You'd really like to be like her one day.

"How's the ankle?"

You look up because it's polite and answer, "Doing a lot better. I've been following all of your instructions, Sergeant."

"Good," her eyes smile more than her mouth, "I think you can start running again next week, right?"

"Yes."

"Awesome," she glances at the paper on your clipboard, "are you tracking times?"

"I am, your group did better than a lot of people."

You meant it as a compliment and the way she smiles makes you feel like you just told her that she looks pretty today; which she does, she always does.

She falls into the empty chair besides you, the communications guy went to the porta-john and left you alone with all the radios.

"Playing Commo?" she laughs, picking up one of the receivers.

You offer a short smile, "More like secretary."

She crosses her legs at the knee and it's ladylike even in her uniform; you like it. You realize you've never seen her in her civilian clothes and that surprises you.

Of course, she's kind of new to the unit, and hasn't been forced to go to mandatory-fun days via the company's horde of army wives. You'd like to see her in a pretty sundress and some kitten heels. You would give an entire paycheck to see her hair down.

And curly, you would like it curly.

"Ha," she snorts in a cute little way, "talk about secretary, I have to pull staff duty this weekend. _Total_ waste of a Saturday."

"Saturdays are the worst," you sympathize.

Staff duty, the twenty-four hour shift at the company barracks to answer phones all night, is a waste of your life. Thankfully you weren't on the duty roster until next month. "I'm sorry, Sergeant."

"It's fine. Did you see them try to scam Flanagan into retraining?" she asks like it's a joke, but her voice is quiet.

"I did," you nod, "I think that guy's an idiot, Sergeant."

She chuckles at you and it's obvious that she agrees, but it wouldn't be professional to say it.

"It was..." you're not sure if this is out of line by saying this, "pretty cool, the way you stood up for Flanagan like that."

The way you said it implied that not many sergeants would do something like that, and she knows it's true.

"Well," she scratches her nose, "us medics have to stick together. You know, Headquarters Platoon is really tight because a lot of the guys get picked on because they're not MPs. When one of them does well at soldier stuff like this, it's really important to make sure everyone knows it."

It's true; there's something between the Military Police in the unit and the soldiers that support it. Headquarters Platoon is full of the soldiers that aren't MPs; the medics, the cooks, the communications guys, mechanics, and supply clerks. Everyone that a Military Police company needs to function.

What sucks is that the MPs treat them like cast offs because they are _support_, or 'softer' soldiers. You've been known to look down at soldiers in Headquarters Platoon; it's a learned behavior, your sergeants do it, so you've picked it up.

You should probably change your attitude.

"I mean, this isn't the first time I've been in an MP unit, so I know the deal," she continues, rolling her eyes. "No offense, but I liked the infantry better."

You've seen her deployment patch from the 4th Infantry Division, it's impressive to you, who has nothing on her sleeve. She glances at your rank.

"You'll be a sergeant soon," she smiles again, "this is good to see. Leadership isn't always about what a soldier is doing wrong, you have to let them know when they're doing something right too."

You almost burst into a smile from the implied compliment; she has enough confidence in you to think that you're worth mentoring. You want to say something intelligent in reply, but all you can think is how all of your own sergeants don't understand that concept, and then the commo guy comes back so she stands.

"Keep it in mind, and if you need any more ibuprofen," she tells you in passing, "just let me know."

You try to keep from watching her as she moves away, showing everyone that the combat uniform can make a woman's ass look—she glances back at you and your eyes shift up from where you had been staring. She's caught you. There's a twitch of her brow and she's trying to decide if you were checking her out.

The way you pull down the bill of your patrol cap and refuse to look up from your clipboard probably makes you look guilty as fuck, but you don't have the nerve to do anything else. If it was possible to die from embarrassment, surely you would have, and it would have been the medic that killed you.

* * *

You stumble while rushing down the stairs from your room. These nylons don't give you any traction to work with and you're too busy trying to tuck your white dress shirt into your skirt to focus on where you're going. At least your ankle feels great. You make it into the lobby of your barracks building just in time to be considered on time. You're fifteen minutes prior and even if you're not wearing your shoes, and your jacket is unbuttoned, you're still here and on time.

Too bad the sergeant that planned the inspection of your dress uniform didn't have the decency to show up on time. In the Army fifteen minutes prior is on time. You're counting his ass as late.

You look around again, just to be sure, before muttering, "Fucking dick," you put a hand on the wall for balance and slip on one of your shiny black pumps. "Early is on time, my ass."

"Where are your crutches?"

You nearly drop your other shoe, looking over to the duty desk where you find SSG Pierce sitting. You've been very disgracefully avoiding her eyes for the past few days. Are you proud of it? No. You're ashamed of yourself. You have a backbone, somewhere, just not when that certain staff sergeant is around.

You can't read the expression on her face so you take your hand off the wall to put it behind your back with the other, standing at an odd version of parade rest with only one shoe on and your jacket still undone.

"Upstairs, Sergeant?"

Your uncertain tone made it a question but she knows it was the answer, finally her serious expression fades into something more like amusement. She takes her time to appreciate your less than professional appearance. "I take it you're doing a Class A inspection?"

"Hot date, actually."

She blinks at you, because that was inappropriate, and you're not sure who's more surprised that you say it.

"I hope not," she snorts quietly, deciding that she can't take you seriously when you look so messed up, "because Sergeant Karofsky isn't that good looking."

"That's an understatement, Sergeant," you're feeling more comfortable around her, maybe because it's just the two of you in this large lobby, and maybe it's because she looks like she's happy to see you. Sitting at that desk all day is so boring that you're not surprised that she's looking for company.

She laughs, waving her hand dismissively at you, "Fix yourself, Lopez."

You break from your parade rest and put on your other shoe, making sure your dress shirt is straight before buttoning your jacket. You hate this uniform, it's stiff and always makes you feel fat, which is ridiculous because you've actually been working out and taking supplements to help gain muscle mass. You can't be weak, you just can't.

She's watching you again, her eyes roaming up and down, and you know that she's looking at your uniform the way sergeants do during inspections. Still, you wish she was looking at you just to look.

"Come here."

There's no way you can refuse, so you walk over, your heels clicking lightly on the tiles, a steady cadence to your impending embarrassment.

You stand before her, automatically going to the position of attention. Your arms against your sides, heels together. You can't look at her, so you look off into a space on the wall behind her.

"How long have you been in the service?"

"Two years, Sergeant," you answer for the fact that there's no service stripes on your sleeve. The fact that you haven't been deployed is also _glaringly_ obvious, so she doesn't insult you by asking.

"Gosh, you soldiers make me feel so old," she rubs her hands over her face as if she can feel the wrinkles.

There aren't any wrinkles there, you would have noticed them. She can't be that much older than you, sure you blew off a few years after high school before you decided to do something with your life, but there's no way she could be _that_ much older than you.

She can see the question in your eyes so she offers, "I'm twenty-five, been in for seven years."

That's three years older than you and five years more experienced. You know enough to realize that she's had really good luck with promotions. It's not really that surprising though, she's great at her job.

"This is your first duty station then," it isn't a question. Her real question is, "Do you like Fort Campbell?"

"I hate the south," you answer honestly.

She snorts, and you look down to catch her smile, "I thought that when I first got here too, Clarksville has grown on me, but I totally miss Fort Carson."

"That's in Colorado, right Sergeant?"

"Yeah," she smiles at the memory, "the place is great. There's snowboarding, and hiking, and fishing, and a great dirt bike track about an hour from town. I loved it there."

You never pegged her for the outdoorsy-sporty type, but you can see it; you would love to see it. The jeep she drives should have been a clue.

God, the first time you saw her driving that jeep you were working the road, sitting in your patrol car at the speed trap on Air Assault Street. She drove past with the top down and all the doors off, her foot propped up on a spot just under her side-view mirror. She spotted your car just as she hit the hill, and gave you a smile and a wave, adjusting her aviators slyly as she drove on by.

She had been speeding and you were too turned on to even move.

You're still not sure if she could tell that it was you in that car. You'd like to hope that if she did, she would take it as a kind gesture. Honestly, you would never give her a ticket. You've thought about pulling her over just to have a reason to talk to her. Maybe she'd be into the sense of authority you have when you're doing the police work part of your job.

You certainly have a thing for authority, namely hers over you.

Of course, you're not just attracted to her because she outranks you by two pay grades. You're attracted to her because she's smart, beautiful, and a great leader. If she gave you an order you would do it in a heartbeat, and without the flack you give other sergeants.

All she had to do was ask.

You'd do anything.

"Your neck tab is crooked," she stands, and for a moment you think she's going to reach for it, your body goes ridged in a effort to remain casual. You're both thankful and disappointed when she crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head in a pondering manner. She's staring hard at your jacket, where your awards and decoration ribbons are pinned into the fabric.

"And I'm not saying this to be mean," she looks at your eyes and you can tell she's trying to be gentle with you, "but your uniform is all sorts of messed up."

You feel like you let her down.

"Did you do this yourself or did someone try to help you?" she's picking up a random folder from the desk and holding it across your chest.

"We did it as a squad last month," you answer, trying to keep your voice level. Even if it's only a manila folder, the fact that she's causing some sort of indirect pressure against your body—a sensitive part of your body, it makes your blood rush. "Sergeant Karofsky told me I was fine."

"He probably doesn't know anything about the female uniform standards," she mumbles. "See, your name plate is supposed to be level with your ribbons."

You glance down and it is, seriously, all sorts of messed up.

"And I'm just eyeballing it," she throws out a disclaimer like she could be wrong and you almost laugh. You'd take her guess over anything Sergeant Karofsky says. "But your marksmanship badge looks way too low."

She glances at the clock, "When was he supposed to be here?"

"He told me to be here at noon," you have reservations about letting her know that he's late, because you don't want to get shit if he gets into trouble. "I might have heard him wrong, though."

She quirks an eyebrow at you, she knows what you're trying to do.

"Do you have a ruler?" she asks, taking the folder away and setting it down.

You shake your head, "No, Sergeant."

You can tell by the way her lips tuck to one side that she doesn't like that answer. She's pulling her cellphone out of her pocket before you have time to say anything else.

"Flan, hey, yeah it's me. Look, sorry for calling you during the weekend, but are you in the barracks?"

You listen to her inquire about the needed item, and as she hangs up she turns back to you.

"Do you want to put your uniform together right? Or wait for your NCO to get here and tell you you're fine?"

"I want to do it right, Sergeant," you know there's no other answer, and really, you're thankful for an excuse to talk to her.

She's happy to hear that, "Alright, then take everything off."

An irrational thought in your head flashes to the image of you taking everything off, as in _everything_, walking over to her, pushing her into that desk chair and—but you know she means everything on your jacket. You slip off your jacket and start taking out ribbons and badges, setting them on the desk for safekeeping.

Flanagan shows up in his pajamas with the seamstress ruler that you need, glancing between you and his boss.

"Did I miss the memo about a Class A inspection?"

"No, I'm just helping Lopez out," she takes the ruler from him, and you're jealous about how comfortable he seems to be with her. You push it down because it makes sense, they work together. "She's getting ready for the Soldier of the Month board, right?"

You nod because that competition is the only reason you'll ever wear this uniform.

"I thought I saw your name on the roster," she has a different kind of smile on her face this time. "Flanagan is going too."

"I feel a little betrayed that you're helping my competition," he says in his awkward Irish accent and she laughs like he was joking. You don't think he was joking.

"Don't worry, Flanagan," you tell him, "I don't have a shot in hell of winning."

You know it's a fact; the board is about sitting in front of all the seniors in the company, in this stiff uniform, and answering stupid Army related questions like, what's the maximum effective range of an M4 rifle? What regulations covers wear and appearance of the military uniform? Or who's the current Secretary of Defense? You couldn't give a shit about any of it, but you've been studying your ass off so you don't make a fool of yourself.

This time he thinks your joking so he chuckles and says he'll be keeping an eye out for you. SSG Pierce thanks him again for the ruler and his time. She promises to make it up to him, even if it was just a five minute trip downstairs. When he leaves she turns back to you, "You can't walk into the board with that kind of attitude, they'll rip you up."

"They're going to rip me up regardless, I've never been to a board before, and I don't even know what you're supposed to do when you get inside," you mumble, because it's embarrassing that your leadership hasn't taught you any of this.

You can feel her eyes on you while you take off the last pin from your lapel.

"I have a pizza on the way," she says like it's no big deal. "Let's take care of your uniform, eat some fatty food, and I'll break down the board process for you."

You're trying to not get emotional that she would offer to teach you something like this, so it takes you a moment to respond, in the seconds of silence something in her eyes shifts to uncertainty and she adds, "Unless you have better things to do on a Saturday. I'm going to be stuck here all day, so it's easy for me to want to be productive, but I'd never hold you here just to keep me company."

You wouldn't need her to keep you here.

"I don't have anything better to do," you say honestly, and to put her at ease, "I need to get this right, and I'm just glad someone is willing help me out."

She looks flattered by the obvious amount of respect and gratitude in your voice. There's a light pink blush appearing on her cheeks, but she tries to keep her composure, "Then let's get started."

She walks you through it, and you know it's not about getting it done to her, it's about making sure you understand why she's doing it the way she's doing it. You feel great that she thinks you're worth her time, that you're worth teaching this to.

"Alright, now this is the tough part," she picks your nameplate up and hands over your jacket.

The only pins you've put on were on your lapels and shoulder boards. You know what's coming.

"The best way to do this is when you're wearing the jacket, that way I can place everything so it lays flat against your..." she trails off and makes this short hand gesture to your chest.

You're lifting your arms into your jacket, and her eyes linger on your breasts as your white dress shirt is pulled tight against them. Your stomach tightens and you try not to read into it. You look down to close your jacket, like you don't know where the buttons are, just to give yourself a break from following her eyes on you.

You hear her take in a breath through her nose and see her hand move to scratch her eyebrow. Is it just you or is she nervous? Maybe you're so nervous that you're projecting your nerves onto her. Are you making this awkward?

"I'm ready when you are."

You say it with a tone level enough to impress yourself, and it's enough to pull her back into sergeant mode. She licks her lips and nods, stooping to get at eye level to her work—your chest, but it's uncomfortable with your height difference and she pulls the chair over so she can sit, rolling close to you the angle is almost perfect.

She twists at her waist, so you won't be standing between her legs, leaning forward. She eyes you again, holding the pin delicately in her hand as she tries to place it as level and centered as possible, it's falling just on top of your left boob and she holds it against the fabric. She hesitates for a second, "Can I..?"

She can't quite verbalize what she needs to do so you reply, "Whatever you need."

"So... what's the regulation about the name plate?" she asks to keep your focus on something else as she reaches up with her other hand.

She unbuttons one of your gleaming gold buttons and her hand slips inside, skating between your jacket and your white dress shirt. You rattle off some regulation about two inches from some button and centered off of something.

You can feel your ribcage cower away from her touch, if she touches you...

"Good," she nods like she's listening, maybe she is, maybe she's too focused on keeping the fabric of your jacket lifted enough to prevent her hand from touching your chest as she pushes in the pins on the back of your nameplate. As soon as they pierce the fabric she retreats and you discreetly let out the breath you were holding.

"Now," she rolls back on the wheel of the chair to make sure her work is level, "what about your ribbons?"

You give her that regulation too, watching her roll back towards you.

"If you know the book answer, then why did your jacket looks so messed up before?" she laughs, picking up your ribbon rack. She looks over them, just to make sure that they are in order and you're pleased to find that at least you did that right. You want to shrug and catch yourself before you do.

"It's really hard to get everything straight when you're doing it yourself," it's the truth and when you were doing it with your squad no one wanted to help because they didn't know the female standards.

"Aren't there girls in the barracks you could ask for help?" she's working on the other side of your chest now as you scoff.

"I'd rather not."

She understands your meaning and says, "I know that some of the girls in our unit might not be very... squared away, but the thing about it is... people will lump all of us together, just because we're girls. So if they're messed up, it's a refection on all of us, because we should know enough to realize that we're the only ones that are going to go out of our way to help each other."

She makes an adjustment on your ribbon rack and presses it into the fabric to keep that spot while her other hand moves to secure it without stabbing you in the boob. While her hand is in your jacket you can't look at her, so you look... everywhere else.

She gets the pins through the material and refastens your button. Her hands drop to the bottom hem of your jacket and she's tugging on it lightly. The backs of her knuckles brush the fabric of your skirt, tickling the tops of your thighs. You are absolutely squirming on the inside. You try to wiggle your toes to relieve some of the antsy tension in your stomach, the need to lean into her touch, cause more gratuitous grazing.

You thought this couldn't get any worse then she says, "Now," her eyes flick up to yours, with a peculiar light to them, "stand up nice and tall for me."

You swallow thickly and square your shoulders, your hands are sweating at your sides and you just might be shaking.

She pushes her chair away before you can lose the last bit of control you have.

She squints at you; your chest.

"I think... you're just a little lopsided—_the ribbons_, I meant the ribbons, not your—"

A flush spreads over her face and you can see it reach the tips of her ears. She coughs into her fist and you look down again to give her a moment. You need it as much as she does, "Which side?"

"Here," because there's really no way you can do it yourself she rolls back towards you. You reach for the ribbons at the same time as she does and your hands touch.

Your eyes meet and you feel like the air around you has suddenly disappeared. There's no random music from her iPod on the desk, your feet aren't hurting from standing in these heels for half an hour, all you can focus on is her eyes. They're such a beautiful shade of blue; you can see it clearly now that they've widened slightly, caught in the same kind of pull you are in.

"Sorry," you say in a breath, but you don't pull your hands away just yet. You let your knuckles linger against hers, touching unintentionally over your heart and you're sure she can feel the way it's going crazy. Finally, you pull your hands away, dropping them to your sides and surrendering to be the stoic soldier she needs you to be right now.

It's not fair of you to put her in this position. She's trying to help you out and you're making it super awkward.

"Thanks," she drops her eyes to your uniform with a determined look in them.

After you get your name plate and your ribbons level, the rest is downhill. Regimental crest and an expert marksmanship badge, identification tabs for your M4 rifle and M9 pistol hang from it.

"You know that they make a tab like this for the bayonet?" she asks with a small smile, trying to break the tension in the air.

"I've seen them in Clothing and Sales," you remember, "but didn't know if anyone would ever be able to wear it. It's kinda like how no one wears the grenade badge, right?"

Her smile takes a turn for the mischievous, "There was this one time, I was stationed at Fort Jackson and you know how it's a training post, so there was this bayonet course. Well, my platoon goes out to it, just to mess around and run through it like, for team building or whatever. I'm pulling medical coverage and of course they don't think that I would want to do it too. Medics can't want to kill things, you know. It's just not done."

A warm laugh is inspired by that, the tight feeling in your chest easing.

"I finally pouted loudly enough that they let me run through it with them. We had such a blast doing it, took pictures of ourselves in all this fake blood I had in the back of my truck, _ruined_ a perfectly good uniform," she chuckles.

You listen to the story as she adds the last clasp to the back of your badge. She's too caught up in her story to pay attention to her hands and the back of her fingers graze over that spot on your chest—the one that had tightened into a small peak of flesh. Your knees almost give out because she just inadvertently touched your breast and even through your white dress shirt and sports bra it sends an astounding number of sensations through your body. The most visible is the blush on your face, and the way you suck your bottom lip into your mouth to keep it from trembling.

"So I—I um," she lost where she was in the story and you can't blame her, for as much as you were listening she could have been fighting zombies on the moon. Her hand is gone quickly, and she pushes her chair away to get out of your personal space, "it was right before the holiday ball so we had to fix up our dress blues, as a joke we all put the bayonet tab on our uniforms. It was hilarious."

She gives your uniform one more glance over, "I think you're done, you can put cardboard behind it to make it look a little sharper, but you look great, Lopez." She smiles again, "Totally ready for the board."

You flush under her praise, and of other reasons, even if it was all her work that got you to this point. "Thank you... for doing this, Sergeant."

She waves you off, scratching her nose and not meeting your eyes, "I'm happy to do it. Here for soldiers and all that jazz."

"Did anyone notice?" you ask, to prolong the conversation before you go back upstairs to your room to sit there and pretend that you don't want to come back down here. "The bayonet tabs, I mean."

She grins, "Only the Sergeant Major."

You laugh at that, "Nice."

"It was pretty awesome trying to explain the whole thing to him," her eyes shine with amusement. "I don't think he got the joke."

"I wouldn't think so," you lift your feet one by one to take your heels off, they're killing you, but at least your blisters have healed since the ruck march.

"How about..." her eyes shift from the floor to the ceiling then finally land on yours, "you go change out of that uniform and I'll run through the board procedures with you?"

You were hoping she hadn't forgotten about that part; the promise to spend a little more time one on one with her. You know there's nothing you'd rather be doing on this Saturday than saying, "I'll be right back."


	3. FM 7 Dash 21 Point 13 1 Dash 111

FM 7-21.13, Chapter 1, Paragraph 111: Soldier Recognition.

* * *

You change out of your uniform and stare into your wall locker. What do you wear now? You don't want to look like you're trying too hard, and you don't want her to think you're a total slob either. You're half tempted to wear your duty uniform but then... you don't want her to think of you as a solider.

You want her to see you as Santana Lopez, instead of Specialist Lopez.

You settle for your favorite pair of jeans. They look good on you in a casual way. They're not tight enough to be trampy and you've always liked the threadbare patches on the knees. Finally, you decide on a deep blue tee shirt that says, 'Hot Mess' in bold print across the front. The color reminds you of her eyes and it pretty much sums up what you turn into when you're around her.

She'll never make the connection.

You're trotting down the stairs, redoing your hair so that it's in a ponytail, instead of the bun you needed for the earlier inspection when you hear her voice. Deciding to be a complete creeper, you hide most of yourself against the wall at the bottom of the stairs so you can listen to her voice.

"—I don't care, Sergeant, I don't care about your excuses. All I care about is you leaving a soldier here waiting for an hour while you didn't so much as call to let her know that you weren't going to show up. What kind of example is that? You could have even called this desk because you told her to meet you at it, there's absolutely no excuse justifying this."

You peek into the lobby; she has the big book of telephone numbers from everyone in your company open in front of her and the receiver to her ear. You realize she's on the phone with your boss, Sergeant Karofsky. You have mixed feelings about this, because you're ecstatic that she would want to chew him out on your behalf, but you know shit rolls downhill. Its fine, you'll take whatever flack he gives you because you all know he is in the wrong.

"No, I sent her back upstairs when it was obvious you weren't showing up, and don't worry about her uniform, I went over it with her."

Her tone is a mixture so scolding and disappointment. SSG Pierce wasn't the kind of leader that yells, she makes soldiers want to kill themselves by giving them the, 'I'm very disappointed in you, I thought you were better than that,' spiel. You don't ever want to be on the receiving end of that. She tells him to enjoy the rest of his weekend and hangs up. Only after she's done that do you step out from the stairwell. Her eyes catch the movement and this time when she looks over you she's not looking for deficiencies in your uniform.

And you know for a fact that you're not lopsided.

"It's weird," she smiles for a second, scrunching her nose and meeting your eyes, "seeing someone in civilians for the first time."

"I know what you mean," you wander closer to the desk, "I always try to guess about what kinds of clothes people would wear, sometimes people just surprise you."

She drops her eyes to the pen in her hands, then back to you, "If you had to peg me for a certain style, what you guess?"

"Shit, Sergeant," you let out a nervous laugh because she basically asked you to pigeonhole her into a few words, and it's such a loaded question, "I don't know."

She smiles at your obvious hesitation, finding it funny, "Oh, come on, Lopez, don't be a scardy cat."

She's playing on your pride to get herself the answer she wants and you're simultaneously flattered and nervous that she has you figured out enough to know an easy way to get you to do what she wants. In order to keep from causing offense, you decided to play things safe.

"Well," you knock your knuckles on the desktop in an attempt to look casual. You're failing. "If I had to think about it logically…"

She snorts, amused with you and you feel so accomplished for putting a smile on her face.

"You just told me that you like snowboarding, and dirt biking, and… outdoorsy shit like that."

Her eyes sparkle, she's playing with a pen in her hands, an eyebrow quirking, urging you to continue.

"So... I would have to think that... you're not high maintenance or anything. You never wear too much makeup in uniform," your eyes take in the hint of eyeliner and shadow, tastefully done, "and I can see you driving around in you jeep in a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, but that doesn't mean you wouldn't know when to wear a nice pair of heels…"

She looks delighted by your answer and tells you, "You must be a very good MP, your reasoning skills are… impressive."

You want to say that you have many skills that she might find impressive… but that would have been outright flirting and completely inappropriate.

She stands before you can say anything else and waves to her chair, "Here, sit down."

You're confused, but follow her instructions without a thought.

"Okay, so we're going to pretend that you're First Sergeant, because when you get into the room all the Platoon Sergeants are going to be sitting at this big long table, First Sergeant in the center."

You realize she's jumping into a explanation about the board, like she promised. She walks around to the other side of the desk and pulls a chair from the few along the wall, setting it about six steps in front of you.

"All of them will be there?"

Four Sergeant First Classes and your First Sergeant sitting at a table staring at you, you find the thought daunting. She makes a short laugh, "Yeah, they're all going to be there. Don't let it syke you out, though."

She walks off from the chair to pretend she's standing outside the board room and you try to picture it; a room with five people staring at you sitting in a chair.

That's not intimidating at all.

"So you're going to knock, three times, no more, no less," she's knocking on an imaginary door, "or you could kick it. I usually kick it, because it's good to be loud and forceful, it shows confidence."

The idea of her kicking a door to be loud and forceful makes you smile.

"They're going to tell you to enter," she's mining opening the door and you think the amount of detail she's putting into this is adorable, "so you go in and shut the door behind you. Don't look at anyone, make a direct line right to the First Sergeant."

"Alright," you swallow as she marches towards you, her eyes above your head and looking quite serious. _She's_ intimidating, even when she's just standing at attention in front of you, and your eyes rake up her body from her boots to her pretty blonde hair.

"You're gonna stop here," she breaks her serious face to look down at her feet, "like, a foot or two from the desk, and report to the President of the Board, which is the First Sergeant."

You memorize the distance between her and the desk. You're rolling forward in your chair, until your elbows are on the desk, leaning over it in an effort to get closer to her. There's so much more that just a desk keeping you apart.

"How do I do that?" you ask, because you've never formally reported to anyone before.

She snaps back into her role, her heels coming together with a thud, lifting her right hand in a crisp salute, "Sergeant Pierce, reporting to the President of the Board."

She doesn't drop her salute but her eyes shift down to you, "They're gonna stand and salute you back," she drops her hand back to her side. "Then you have to do a few facing movements."

When you watch her make a left face, pivoting on her heel and her toes to turn in a right angle, your eyes skate up and down her body, taking in every movement, every mechanical aspect of her march up and down the imaginary line of sergeants.

"When they're done judging your uniform, which is impeccable if I might add," she sends you a sly smile and your stomach flips, "they'll say to locate the seat behind you and sit down."

You listen as she explains how you should walk to it and sit down. There's more steps to that than the three steps it takes to get to the chair. There's a particular way you have to do every little thing. Which foot steps off first, where to place your hands, how much time you get to find a comfortable position before you need to turn into a sitting statue.

You hate the Army for making this so complicated and tedious.

You love Army for giving you an excuse to watch her move.

"Usually, this is when they ask you for your bio, or to recite the creed, or—"

"What bio?" you frown, completely lost.

She looks at you for a second, trying to figure out if you're joking until she realizes that you're not. She rubs her forehead, "Oh boy…"

"I'm sorry," you sigh, rolling you eyes, "I'm hopeless."

"You're not hopeless," she brushes you off with a reassuring smile, "you just don't know any better. You're gonna give them a quick bio; where you come from, what you've done in the Army, and what you want to do in the Army."

"That sounds retarded," you mumble. You can't think of anything you would want to tell any of those people.

"It is, but it's also, like, really important. Here's an example," she glances up to the ceiling, jogging her memory. Then she looks back at you, keeping a firm and confident level of eye contact that makes you shiver in your seat. "Good morning, members of the board, my name is Staff Sergeant Brittany S. Pierce—"

Her first name is Brittany.

Brittany, Brittany Pierce.

You're certain that you've never heard a more beautiful name in your entire life. You feel honored with the knowledge of her first name and feel somehow closer to her, like you've uncovered a detail that only few people were allowed to know, it was secret, and treasured, and you know it.

Brittany.

"And I was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, where I enlisted shortly after high school," she continues and you're hanging on every word. She's telling you her story and this is the most important thing you'll learn today. "After graduating basic and AIT, my first duty station was with an MP unit at Fort Jackson, where we deployed to Afghanistan for eighteen months in support of Operation Enduring Freedom."

She's been to Afghanistan; you're impressed. You wonder if her old MP unit was better than yours, and if she was regretted getting assigned here.

"Soon after redeploying I transferred to Fort Carson just to deploy again, this time to Iraq, with the 4th ID. I enjoyed my time with the infantry and my move to Fort Campbell was bittersweet, but I'm making the most of my position here, a short term goal I have is to get Specialist Flanagan ready for Air Assault School as well as the promotion board."

Her goals are to better her solider.

"Long term, I'd like to go to Drill Sergeant School or get a spot as Cadre at the medic training center in Fort Sam Houston."

When she was finished, her military bearing disappeared instantly and she ducked her head bashfully, "or something like that."

You realize, "I don't have all that awesome stuff to brag about. My military experience is sitting here on Fort Campbell."

"That only means you have to emphasize different things," she shrugs but keeps her hands in their place on her thighs, her back straight along the back of the chair. "You're not trying to impress them with what you've done, but what you want to do."

You give her a look and she rolls her eyes at you before saying, "You want to go to Air Assault School, right? That's a short term goal."

"Yeah, I guess."

"And I'm pretty sure you want to get promoted?"

You nod because you do, you want strips on your chest and you want the respect that comes with it. You want to be a better NCO than the ones you've had, the ones that tell you to be somewhere then don't show. You want to get promoted so you can be a little like her, and you hope you're as awesome as she is one day.

"You know the Solider of the Month board is a great way to practice for the promotion board?"

"I do."

She stands up from her chair and waves you over, a challenging air in her eyes, "Then come over here and show me how badly you want this."

You wonder if she can see the blush on your face because you mind went straight to the gutter. You want it alright; _it_ being her. You push that into the back of your mind and focus on the task at hand.

* * *

About two hours and a empty pizza box later, you're still suck in this stupid chair, she's still behind the desk, watching you with those unreadable blue eyes. You feel so much more confident about the upcoming competition and it has everything to do with her going over it with you and nothing to do with the little balls of paper she's lining up along the front of her desk.

You're watching her do it, as you run through you own, much shorter, bio.

"Specialist Lopez," she starts when you're finished, "what's your first general order?"

"Sergeant, my first general order is, I will guard everything within the limits of my post—"

You're cut off when a paper ball flies at you, you jump a little in your seat, dumbfounded that she flicked it at you, and with surprising accuracy. It bounced off your shoulder and fell to the ground, your eyes follow it, glancing between her and the paper with a bewildered expression.

"Eyes forward," she scolds with a the hint of a playful tone, "you're a statue of military awesomeness, remember?"

You roll your eyes and mumble, "Right."

That earns you another paper ball projectile, bouncing off your chest and falling to the ground.

"Keep your military bearing, Lopez," she warns. "Don't let anything distract you from the question you still haven't answered."

You're so caught up in the lopsided, impish, grin she's wearing to remember what the question was in the first place. She quirks an eyebrow, realizing your dilemma. She's opening her mouth to say something when you finally pull it out of your less than functional mind.

"I will guard everything within the limits of my post, and quit my post only when properly relieved."

"Sergeant," she finishes for you.

"Sergeant," you repeat needlessly.

"Everything you say should begin or end with Sergeant," she reminds you, rolling another bit of paper between her fingertips.

She has... wonderful hands.

You want to squirm at the thought of what they're capable of... but you're sitting at the modified position of attention; heels together, hands flat on your thighs, back straight, and she's watching you with those... blue eyes. Eyes that have seen more than you'll ever know. She just might be looking into your soul, you're sure you're horrible at hiding your odd mixture of hero worship and sexual attraction.

A soft tap on your stomach tells you that you've just been hit with another paper ball and you blink back into focus.

"Huh?"

She laughs at you, "_Huh_, isn't really going to win you the board, Lopez."

You lick your lips, glancing away for just a second.

"And stop licking your lips."

You can feel the blood rush to your face when she calls you out and you suck your bottom lip into your mouth to keep from doing it again. She's watching you do it, watching your teeth rake across your lip as it moves back out of your mouth. You see a shadow flicker at her throat and you're pretty sure she just swallowed.

You're swallowing down your own feelings, focusing on your military bearing and pretending to be the perfect solider, just for her.

"I know it's a nervous habit," she says, a hair softer, a hair deeper. It's not a nervous habit, it's only a habit when she's around. "You've done it a couple of times now, but you can't do it in the board so try to kick the habit."

Was there a trace of regret in her tone? As if she enjoys watching you lick your lips and would hate for you to stop?

No, you're making it up. There's no way.

"I'll try my best," you nod, understanding what you had to do right now, "give me another question?"

By the smile in her eyes, she was hoping you would ask that.

* * *

You show up a half an hour early.

It's something you do when you're nervous, just in case you forgot something, or just in case you throw up, you'll be able to clean up before you actually need to be ready for anything. Slowly people start congregating in the room you've been standing in, it's a holding room for people competing at this stupid Solider/NCO of the Month board.

The competitors are in their dress uniforms, standing because if they sit their uniform will get wrinkled.

SPC Flanagan walks in, looking around, he sees you and walks over. You've been talking a little more than usual lately, mostly because you realized that if you spent more time with him, you'll be more likely to run into his boss. He's not a bad guy either, hard to understand some times, but that was only when you actually listened.

The senior medic has yet to show up and you're getting anxious. You want to see her before you go in, you want her to give you that reassuring smile and tell you that you're going to do great. She's the only one that believes in you, and even if you know it's just her job, it means the world to you.

"How you doing?" he asks, running his hands down the front of his jacket, you have to admit he looks sharp.

"I'm fine," you're freaking out, but you won't tell him that. "You?"

"I think I'm about to throw up," he admits with a weak laugh.

"I know I'm your competition," you eye him, taking a half step away, "but if you throw up on me, I'll break your arm."

"I won't," he assures you.

"Lopez, Irish." You both look over to where Corporal Puckerman is walking over. "Looking nice."

He's in your platoon, and not your favorite person in the world. He loves talking about his ridiculous, and vastly exaggerated, sexual exploits whenever he can and you're sick of listening to him talk. He's been full of himself ever since he became a team leader and you're glad you're not his solider.

"Did you need something, Corporal?" you have to be nearly polite, but the look in you eyes gives him the message.

"Just to wish you luck," he reaches into his pocket, "and show you my pretty little coin here."

He holds up and Air Assault graduation coin, and you cringe. It's a tradition that if one is dropped in a coin challenge, and you're not Air Assault qualified, you have to do pushups. You really don't want to have to do pushups in your dress uniform.

"Drop that coin and I'll drop you, Puckerman."

Everyone looks to the door where SSG Pierce was walking in. You didn't expect her to to show up in her dress uniform too, but she looks amazing in it. Her black jacket is beautifully tailored to her thin frame, and she ops for the blue slacks and low-quarters instead of the skirt and pumps like you. The gold stripes down her legs identify her as the Non-Commissioned Officer that she is. You always thought the slacks looked unfeminine and tacky until she proves otherwise.

She looks... like everything you've ever wanted in a woman.

"I was just having a little fun, Sergeant, trying to lighten to mood, you know?"

"No, I don't," her eyes narrow, and her show of authority makes your stomach tighten and you lick your lips. "Now if you're not competing and you're not sponsoring a soldier who is, you need to leave."

He knows not to argue with her, because she never threatens to make anyone drop and do pushups… ever. You can feel her frustration as she walks over to SPC Flanagan, and you by association. This makes talking to him worthwhile.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she says like he outranks her, "I had a horrible morning, and my hair didn't understand that I was in a rush."

"It looks nice," you offer from next to him. You can tell she really tried this morning because that one curl isn't sticking out, her bun is perfect. Just like the rest of her.

She blinks at you, and suddenly you're self-conscious about complimenting her. Then she breaks into a smile and puts you at easy by saying, "Thank you, Lopez."

Her eyes shift back to Flanagan who is eyeing the decorations on her chest. You take a look too because you had no idea that she _actually was_ Pathfinder qualified when she made that comment at the land navigation course. Pathfinder, a Combat Medical Badge, her own set of Air Assault wings. She is triple stacked and you have nothing on your chest but the ribbons you get for graduating basic training.

"Stop judging me," she warns softly, "the both of you."

You catch the undertone to her words, she's self-conscious about her decorations and you don't understand why.

She starts giving Flanagan a pep-talk as you try to figure her out. She can wear these badges in her regular duty uniform, but she chooses not to. You had no idea she was Air Assault qualified, you thought she would have at least worn that badge in a company that puts so much weight on it. You ask her as much and she takes a moment before answering, "I don't like drawing attention to myself, and we all need to be focusing on the board."

Her tone is now implying that you need to drop the subject so you do and continue to listen in on their conversation.

"Remember what I told you," she prompts her soldier.

"They're all idiots," he repeats confidently. "I'm the subject matter expert."

She continues, "No one knows this..."

"More than I do."

"And even when I'm wrong..."

"I'm right," he nods confidently.

"Good," she pats his shoulder, "you're going to do great. It's all about confidence."

You pretend she's talking to you.

He takes a deep breath, "I'm so glad you're competing with me, Sergeant, makes me feel a whole lot better about everything."

You feel slighted that she didn't tell you she was going to be competing in the NCO of the Month board when you were freaking out about yourself this weekend, but really, she has no reason to explain herself to you. You're not surprised that they're competing together though, they do everything together. SSG Pierce would never make her soldier do something that she wasn't willing to do herself.

You were told to be here, so you are.

"We have to win this thing for Headquarters," she glances around, they're the only non-MPs in the room. She lowers her voice, "My competition doesn't look too bad."

"You can totally take him," Flanagan glances to the only other NCO in his dress blues.

"Now you're in some serious trouble," she tells him, "I heard that Lopez girl really knows her stuff."

She's joking with you, paying you a compliment and you take it to heart. You stand around joking about who's going to bomb harder to keep the mood light, trying to distract yourselves from your nerves. They start calling you in, soldiers first, one by one. Flanagan goes first because the order is alphabetical and you watch them leave, she's his sponsor, and he's going to do great.

You're trying to get angry, chanting the medic's mantra in your head; _they're all idiots._

Flanagan comes out looking pale faced and sweating like he just ran three miles. You're next and that really isn't what you wanted to see just before you go in. They call your name and you nod at the preceptor, taking a deep breath, stepping off towards the door.

"You're going to kick ass."

You pause as you pass her, her eyes are sincere and excited for you. She's not saying it to be nice; she's saying it because she believes it. Somehow her confidence in you gives you the courage to swallow your nerves and send her a short, thankful nod.

The board passes in a blur. You took her advice and kicked the door. Three times. You report in as confidently as you can, give them your life story, and tell them you want to be Sergeant Major of the Army someday. Then the questions start.

You don't know where the answers are coming from, but they do.

Thankfully, blessedly, correctly, they come. You're feeling more confident with each question, looking each sergeant in the eye like they owe you something.

Finally, they tell you you're dismissed and you stand, saluting your First Sergeant and march out with your head held high. That couldn't have gone any better and you are so thankful that it's over. When you get back into the hall you realize your hands are shaking and your heart is still pounding in your chest. Before you find anyone else you want to make sure you don't look like a scared little girl, so you walk down the hall and duck into the women's restroom.

"No one is more professional than I, I am a Non-Commissioned Officer, a leader of soldiers…"

You hear her reciting the NCO Creed as you walk in, and for the first time you see the anxiety in her eyes through the mirror, she's quick to blink it away, giving you a smile. The smile doesn't quite reach her eyes but it's still a valiant effort.

"How'd you do?"

"I… I um," you let the door close behind you, sealing you in together, "I think I did alright. Got caught up on the Army programs, missed a few regulations, but I gave them a number and didn't second guess myself."

"That's great," she pulls away from the sink, turning so she can face you, "really great, Lopez."

"How did Flanagan do?"

"He's kicking himself because he completely messed up the military justice section, which isn't helpful because we work with MPs, but he did fine besides that."

You walk over to the sink next to hers, running cool water from the tap, "The NCOs are up next right?"

"Yeah," she smooths her jacket down, eyes searching looking for nonexistent lint. "We're up next."

You want to say something encouraging, something that will help her out, give her the confidence she gave you.

"That, _they're all idiots_ thing really worked for me," you mention, trying to get her to realize that her own advice is all she needs. "It totally got me to chill out."

She smiles a little brighter at that and you feel like you did something to help, which is all you want to be able to do.

"Don't tell Flanagan, but…" she leans over, stage whispering, "I really wouldn't mind if you won this thing."

You drop your eyes back to the running water, hoping she can't see the way your face was heating up.

"I should probably get back out there," she gives herself one more look in the mirror and you want to tell her she's stunning, beautiful, simply radiant in so many ways. "Wish me luck."

She's walking towards the door and you say, "Good luck, Sergeant Pierce."

When her hand is on the door handle, she looks back at you and your eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror. For a second there it looks like she might say something, but thinks better of it, finally settling for, "Thank you, Lopez."

When the door clicks shut behind her you let out the breath you had been holding. She had such a power over you and it has nothing to do with her rank.

* * *

You are simply astounded when you win.

You're not the kind of solider that wins these things. You have a bad attitude, you give sergeants sass all the time, and you've been late to formation more than a few times.

Flanagan is the first one to congratulate you, shaking your hand and telling you that you deserve it. You get the feeling that he's being sincere, and you appreciate it. He tells you that he doesn't feel too bad for losing because he really messed up and SSG Pierce won the NCO bracket so at least Headquarters Platoon took home something. He's a really good guy, you decide to start trying to figure out how to interpret his accent.

You glance over to where she's shaking her competitions hand, a small, modest smile on her face. She's taking it all in stride, and once again, not making a big deal of it. She breaks away from the NCOs to walk over to you.

"Congratulations, Sergeant," you're quick to say, a smile coming to your face and you're not sure who you're more exited for. You're still kind of in shock that you won. It's actually kind of awesome; your shoulders are squarer, and you're standing taller, and you feel like you just proved something.

Something big.

"Thank you," she glances between you and her soldier, "the sergeants on the board just finished telling me that you both did so awesome, I'm so proud."

She's proud of you and that's the cherry on the cake.

"I wish I could have won it for you, Sergeant," Flanagan sighs, shuffling his low quarters across the floor. You feel bad because he feels like he let her down, and you would too if you were in his shoes.

"There's always next month," she jokes, slapping his shoulder affectionately.

Your NCO, Sergeant Karofsky, walks into the room followed closely by your teammate Specialist Evans. They're wearing their duty belts and radios and you know they've been on patrol and that's why he wasn't with you this morning. They've obviously heard the news and from the look in SGT Karofsky's eyes, he's just as surprised as you are. You take offense even though you thought you were going to bomb too.

"Lopez," he slaps you on the shoulder with none of the affection that SSG Pierce had shown SPC Flanagan. "Look at you, Soldier of the Month."

"Yeah," you mumble. You're not sure how he makes you feel like you didn't deserve this, like he never in a million years would have thought that this was possible.

"This is so cool," SPC Evans says from beside him. The look on his face is the exact opposite, "we're totally going out to celebrate this weekend. Nashville?"

Evans, is by far, your closest friend in the company. You actually went to basic training together and it was a happy coincidence that you were both sent to the same duty station. You even lucked out by being getting into the same platoon and finally managed to get put on the same team, barring your leadership, you're happy working with him everyday.

"Flanagan, you should come with," you suggest, "because I bet they just wanted to screw you out of it so the medics wouldn't look like complete badasses by taking both brackets. They're only looking to save the MP reputation."

You catch the pleased look in SSG Pierce's eye, you've impressed her, but you're not sure what you did right.

"Lopez, Pierce, get over here!"

You turn to the voice, already knowing who it is and what they want, "Moving First Sergeant!"

You both hurry over to the highest ranking Sergeant in the company and immediately stand at parade rest. You feel odd, standing next to SSG Pierce like you're on the same level as her. You're no where near it.

First Sergeant Sylvester stands squarely in front of you, arms crossed over her chest and eyes simply predatory. She has the impeccable ability to make you feel like you did something wrong and she knows what it is and has proof.

"You ladies did well for yourselves today," glances between you both. "I expected it from you, Sergeant Pierce. I have a surprise for you. Should be arriving in the next month or so."

"First Sergeant?" she asks for an explanation.

"You'll see Pierce," she brushes it off and turns to you, fixing you with an appraising stare. "You Lopez, you surprised me today. There's something in your attitude and I'm not sure if it was because you wanted to jump over the table, pull out the shank I know is hidden somewhere on your person, and stab all of us, but there's a fire in your eyes, Lopez, I liked it."

You're not sure if that's a jab at your nationality, you choose to ignore it and say, "Thank you, First Sergeant."

"I have your name on the next Air Assault roster," she starts walking away, "don't let me down."


	4. Army Values: Duty

AN: Just for some quick visual aids, and a little bit of explanation. I've started putting some fic/army related posts on my tumblr. I'll probably add more as I go along, but for now, gnomingabout tumblr com /tagged/I-Need-a-Medic

* * *

Army Values: Duty.

* * *

Besides the fact that he's been your friend since you joined the service, Sam Evans has always been a really nice guy. When you knock on his door this Saturday afternoon, fully prepared to make the forty-five minute drive to Nashville and get your party on, he's still not dressed and invites you in to mess around on his computer while you wait.

"There's not really much you can do with your Army boy hairdo," you throw over your shoulder at him in the bathroom, "so I don't know why you're trying so hard."

He's always kept his hair longer than what most people would consider regulation, it's long on top, clean around his ears and just enough to be styled into something cute.

"I need a haircut tomorrow," he calls back to you, "don't let me forget."

"I will," you mumble. Chances are you'll both forget and you will end up cutting his hair in his bathroom again, you've gotten really good at it. The first few times... not so much. He doesn't complain, it saves him seven dollars from the ladies at the barbershop.

You play around on his computer, the bigger than necessary monitor taking up most of the space on the desk, with an array of video games and geek paraphernalia surrounding you. The Darth Vader bobble-head is giving you the creeper jiggle and you have to hold it still to keep from smacking it off the desk.

Evans is a complete nerd and you love him for it. Sure, you don't always get his jokes, but at least he's making jokes that have some sort of intelligence to them instead of the dirty humor most of the boys are inclined to. You're sure Flanagan will fall into this same, shyer than most, un-macho type of guy you actually like talking to.

As a teammate Evans is more than you could have hoped for, he knows you have more pride than is healthy for your little body so when you struggle with the more physical aspects of your job he's always there and never says a word about it. You're actually work out buddies, he's been coaching you on the different supplements you've been taking along with your workouts. You've gotten to a point where you can bench press your body weight and then some. Now that's badass.

He's the only person in the company that's seen you cry and you plan on keeping it that way.

"Alright, you ready to grab Flanagan?"

"What's his first name?" you ask, standing up as he grabs his coat, "Flanagan is totally not something I want to be saying in the club."

He laughs and tells you it's Rory.

"That's a little better."

You find his room, approve of his outfit, and pile into his car. He's offered to be the designated driver because apparently he get's crazy when he drinks.

"What," you send him a smile so he knows you're joking, "does your Irish blood make you think you're not as scrawny as you really are?"

"That's pretty much how it goes, yeah," he scratches the back of his head.

"I still think that you and Lopez should be the ones celebrating tonight," Evans says from the back seat, ever the gentleman to give you the front. "It's not like I had to go to the board."

"Be thankful of that fact," he tells Evans through the rear view mirror. "They tore me a new one."

During the drive you talk about the board and how ridiculous it was. You wonder if you should be offended that First Sergeant Sylvester accused you of bringing a shank. Apparently, she told Flanagan that it was obvious he hadn't brought his four leaf clover. You're not sure which one is worse.

* * *

Along with being your favorite nerd in the company, Evans is also native to Kentucky and frequents Tennessee so often you're pretty sure they're the same thing, so he knows all the little places around Nashville that are either pro-military, or he can make you seem local enough to fly under the radar in places that aren't.

It was really strange, the first time you realized that not everyone wanted to shake you hand and thank you for your service. Not that you liked getting that kind of attention, it's awkward and make you feel like you aren't living up to their expectations because you didn't join to serve your country. You joined because it was a good opportunity for you at the time.

That still doesn't mean that it's okay with you that people deliberately go out of their way to tell you how much you suck because you're in the military. The boys get it more than you do, they stand out because of their haircuts, but you hate seeing it.

Tonight you wont have to worry about any of that, you're going to a place you frequent. They know you and love Evans, and sometimes he get's drunk enough to steal a guitar and sing a sad song about losing his truck and his girl and his dog on the tiny stage in the corner. It's a little... _country_ for your taste, the dance floor is more for line dancing than bump and grinding, but you're not looking to do that with anyone.

No one in present company anyway.

You hate to admit it but there has been more than one occasion that Evan's pulled you onto the floor for a little two step.

You find your favorite spot on the corner of the bar, it's perfect so you can all see each other and the dance floor, and the blonde bartender who's decidedly not as pretty as you remember. Spending days obsessing over a particular blonde medic will make all other beautiful blondes seem... less beautifully blonde.

You chuckle to yourself and order yourself and Rory drinks.

"Drink this," you hand it to him.

He's confused, "I thought I was going to DD?"

"Not a chance dude, after the trauma you went through in the board you deserve to let loose," Evans claps him on the back and nods encouragingly. "I got your back if you decided to turn into the Hulk."

You get the play on words, "Ha, the Hulk is green, the Irish like green. He gets angry, angry Irish drunks. You're so fucking funny Evans."

"I try really hard," he smiles at you, probably impressed that you even know who the Hulk is and not at all slighted that you ruined his joke.

"Keep trying, pal."

* * *

You're successfully drunk. You can tell because when _The Bombshell Stomp _starts playing over the speakers you almost jump off your stool. Evans rushes off the floor to grab you, pulling on your arm saying, "This is your song!"

You turn to Flanagan and deny everything, "This is _not_ my song."

"You're gonna miss it," Evans grins at you, grabbing your drink off the counter and you're off your stool just to get it back.

Getting your drink turns into falling into step with the rest of the line and soon the drink is back in your hand and you have no desire to go back to the bar. Evans is next to you and he's kicking up his boots. You're following along in your heels and it's almost the same thing.

You swing to the the right, and swing to the left, shake your booty, and step step step.

"Go get Clover over there and we'll teach him how to step," you tell your friend. He laughs and does just that.

"I thought that wasn't your song?" Flanagan asks as he falls into place next to you, looking all sorts of awkward and three moves behind.

"If you ever tell anyone about this," you threaten as you stay in step with the dance, "I'll cut off your toe and keep it as a lucky charm."

That makes him nod and focus on what Evan was saying about the footwork. You fall into your happy line dancing place, enjoying the music and the alcohol. When Flanagan starts to get the hang of it Evans moves a little closer to you.

He hold out his hand to you, "May I have this dance, Little Lady?"

He always asks like the biggest cheeseball and you have to take his hand and let him spin you into the center of the floor where other couples were two-stepping. You like dancing with him, because besides the spinning and the hand holding, there's not too much touching. He makes sure to keep a respectful distance and you're flattered at the concern, but you're sure you'd be comfortable getting a little closer if it came down to it.

He's a good guy, and it's not like he doesn't know.

You had been hanging out for few months before he caught you making out with a pretty little cowgirl in the hallway to the bathrooms. He might have been crushing on you before that, but now you're just one of the boys and you're grateful.

Tonight you're happy to celebrate owning the shit out of the board, impressing First Sergeant Sylvester, and making that senior medic proud of you.

* * *

A few hours and a few drinks later, you're sure that Evans isn't supposed to be drinking, but whatever, you're not in charge, all you care about is the blonde you're dancing with. She's too short and not as thin, and really... just not SSG Pierce.

"You'd make a sexy cowgirl," she whispers in your ear, placing her cowboy hat on your head and pulling back coyly.

This isn't the first cowgirl hat you've donned, or stolen, it's something you do. You think it's funny as shit and Evans sells them on eBay and you drink more with the profits.

You open your mouth to say something flirty back when something knocks into your shoulder. You're amused until you see that it's Flanagan and another guy trying to fight, they're too drunk and confused to get many hits in. The bartenders are yelling to take it outside when Evans comes flying in, trying to break it up.

"Hey! Irish! Knock it the fuck off," you're yelling too, trying to get them to break it up, a rouge elbow hits you in the face and you just get pissed. You jump on the guys back and pull back his hair so that Flanagan can get a clean shot.

Evans rips you off the guy and throws you over his shoulder, pulling Flanagan along by the arm and out the door.

"Fucking put me down Evans!" you're yelling and kicking your feet like it would help, like you're really in any condition to go back in there and beat up a bunch of wannabe cowboys. "That guy clocked me in the eye."

You can feel it pulsing along your eyebrow, hopefully it wont swell or bruise, you would hate to have to explain that at work on Monday.

He gets you both about a block away and nowhere near your car... which you can't actually remember where you parked. Not that any of you are in any condition to drive. Setting you down gently he looks around, "Do you know where we parked?"

"No," you admit, following his eyes around for something familiar, you find nothing but Flanagan. "What the fuck is your problem? Why did you get into that fight?"

"He insulted my mother," he mumbles, dabbing his split lip with the cuff of his shirt.

You snort insensitively, "That's a great reason to get into a fight. I'm sure she's really proud."

All the fight has left him and he looks more embarrassed than anything. Evans sits down on step of a closed bakery and you see his head bob in that way it does when he's about to pass out.

You kick his foot, "You weren't supposed to drink."

"I'm sorry," he shakes his head in his hands, "some girl was buying me shots, it woulda been rude to turn her down."

You pinch the bridge of your nose. You're drunk, Flanagan's leaning against the brick wall like he's going to trow up and Evans has just ruined your ride home.

"I'm sorry, Santana."

Your anger dissipates and you know you have to figure something out. You can find a cab to a hotel, fork over the hundred bucks for a room, and figure out where your car is tomorrow. That's your plan, you have a plan. You can do this.

"Hey, Sergeant..."

Your heart stops when you hear Flanagan's obviously inebriated voice slur out those words. It just gets worse.

"...yeah I'm drunk."

"What are you doing!" you hiss, trying to get the phone away from him. You can figure this out yourself, you can take care of yourself. You don't need an NCO. You don't need his boss coming to your rescue.

His boss.

SSG Pierce.

"Yeah they're with me," he continues, swatting your hands away with horrible aim. "No, we can't find our car and they're drunk, and I'm drunk, and there was this guy, I got a pretty good shot in, with Lopez's help."

You're not sure how much of it she can understand through his thick accent and slurred speech. He tells her the cross streets before you can stop him and says, "Okay, thank you. I'm sorry."

He hangs up and turns to you.

"Sergeant Pierce is coming to pick us up."

"What, in an hour?" you throw your hands out in an aggravated gesture. It takes a second to get out here from Fort Campbell.

"No... like," he rubs his stomach, "she's right across town."

"What?"

"I don't know, that's what she said," he looks just as confused as you feel. "Stop yelling at me..."

"Fucking sit down with Evans," you shove him towards the step and fall into place next to him. "We're all fucked now."

You're going to sit here and wait to be the biggest disappointment ever.

It's not fifteen minutes before her jeep pulls up on the curb, illegally parked and kind of crooked. You don't care, by this point you're getting really tired and the alcohol is really setting in and you're sure you're going to bust into tears as soon as she gives you that 'I'm really disappointed in you' speech.

She jumps out and you're surprised by her outfit; the skinny jeans, the heels, the Nashville Predators jersey. There's two cute little stripes of blue paint under her eyes and you have a vague memory of someone telling you that there was a hockey game tonight. You're not into hockey, it's a little butch for you, but they way she's pulling off that look is just...

"So fucking hot," you say it before you can stop yourself and Evans elbows you in the ribs.

She didn't hear, she's leaning in front of Flanagan and talking in a soft voice with a large smile on her face.

"How ya feeling, Flan?"

She's... fucking teasing him. She thinks this is funny. If your NCO was the one picking you up off the street he would have something more to say than, how are you feeling?

"I wanna go back in there an make that guy apologize to my mother," he mumbles, "she's a good woman, a saint."

"I'm sure he got what he deserved," she's squinting at his split lip, "we'll have to clean that up. Are either of you hurt?"

You shake your heads and Flanagan dimes you out again, "Lopez was wearing this cowboy hat until I elbowed her in the face and knocked it off. Accident, I swear. I think I got her in the eye, it's kinda swollen."

"I'm fine," you brush it off and cringe when she moves towards you. You keep your eyes on the concrete in front of you.

"Can I just take a look?" she asks softly and you know it's entirely up to you.

You almost give in, but like Flanagan get's angry when he's drunk, you get stubborn so you say, "Really, it's fine."

"Alright," she steps away and you miss her presence instantly. "Well, you guys have a choice. I have a hotel room across the river, it's small, single bed but we can all crash there until the morning and I'll drive you out here to find your car then. Or I can take you back right now and you'll have to come back out and find it yourselves tomorrow."

None of you like the idea of driving out here just to find a car tomorrow. It would be a two hour round trip and even then... with the impending hangover... so not worth it.

It's a unanimous decision and it's likely that you're the only one worried about being stuck in a small hotel room with her. You're hoping that you'll just pass out as soon as you find a spot on the floor. She helps you get the boys into the back of the jeep. When Evans hits his limit he's as good as gone and it's ridiculous that he was able to get to this point so quickly. Flanagan lost all of his fight and is now taking every opportunity to tell SSG Pierce how sorry he is.

"Flanagan, I'm not mad," she tells him, "but if you say you're sorry one more time I'm gonna start getting annoyed, so knock it off. This is my job, to take care of you guys. You shouldn't be sorry, I'm just glad you called me instead of trying to drive home."

He falls silent after that and you're glad. You finish pushing Evans up and into the back seat. The jeep is very tall, raised on a fancy suspension system, you're sure she's put a lot of work into bells and whistles of it all.

"You good, Evans?" you ask to be sure.

"Yeah," he's fumbling with the seat belt and Flanagan reaches over to help him out.

You startle when something touches your shoulder, you spin on your heels and she's standing in front of you.

"Sorry," she takes her hand back, pushing her long bangs back behind her ear.

Her hair is in a ponytail and you want to reach out an touch it. The curls falling from the tie are effervescent in the streetlights. She's licking her lips and saying, "Did you need help getting into the cab?"

You glance up to the passenger's seat, it looks daunting but you're a slave to your pride.

"It's a little... tall," she continues with the hint of a smirk on her face.

"I can get it," you say, turning to the jeep. You've climbed over walls twice your height, you've beaten rope ladders, and scaled suspension bridges in obstetrical courses. You can get into a fucking jeep. You place your foot on the aftermarket chrome step rail and take a hold of the door frame.

You might have owned those obstetrical courses but that was when you were wearing combat boots and not heels. You misjudge the amount of friction your shoe has against the steel and you slip.

"I got you," firm hands capture your hips, and your grip on the metal tightens tenfold. You have to keep yourself from letting go, just to fall into her arms.

Wouldn't that be a glorious feeling?

She adds a soft, guiding pressure, encouraging you towards the seat. You let her move you, because all motor function has failed and you're putty in her hands. When you're in the seat she surprises you by hopping onto the railing and stepping up after you. She holds on easily to the frame of the jeep above her head with one hand.

"Now that I have you cornered," she laughs lightly, still wonderfully lighthearted about the whole situation. The hand not steadying herself on jeep is moving towards you and you do everything in your power to keep from straying away from it.

"I wish I had some better light," she mumbles to herself, focusing entirely on the throbbing spot over your eye. Her fingertip hovers just over your skin, and you look around her jeep to try and distract yourself from it. She might as well be holding a match to your face because every nerve ending in your skin is on fire.

Without touching your skin, she brushes back a strand of your hair, to get a better look, "We'll have to put some ice on it when we get to the hotel."

You nod, not trusting your voice or your sobriety to make an intelligent reply. With your consent for further treatment later on she smiles, stepping down from the jeep and taking her hand with her.

"Buckle up."

* * *

She's able to charm the lady at the front desk into giving her a double room instead of a single, she hadn't checked in yet which was a bonus.

"Why would you spend the night in town if you weren't going to drink at the game and it's only an hour drive from post?" you ask, following her down the hall. Evans is on your shoulder, leaning most of his weight on you and you're going a little slower than her with Flanagan.

"I was planning on a shopping trip downtown tomorrow," she shrugs, pausing in front of a room to slide the key card in and open the door. Awkwardly you shuffle in and close it behind you. She's depositing Flanagan on the far bed and you get Evans walking enough to push him into the bathroom when he says he has to piss.

"Don't make a mess," you warn after him.

"Yes ma'am."

"Fucking funny."

"Flan, take off your shoes buddy," she pats his shoulder to keep him awake for a second longer, "and make room for Evans, you're bunking together."

"Yes, Sarge."

She snorts, "Don't call me that."

"No, Sarge."

She shakes her head, walking away from him as his shoes hit the floor and wrestles the blanked out from beneath the mattress. You watch her turn on the television and flip through the channels until a late night sports broadcast comes on. She's looking to find out how the hockey game ended.

"How much of the game did you miss?" you ask, feeling guilty.

"Just a little of the end," she shrugs again. "Really, I'm not a huge Predators fan, my hearts in the San Jose Sharks, but they won't be playing here for another few weeks," her eyes find yours and it's so obvious that she doesn't even have to say, "I'm totally excited about it."

"That's cool," you mumble, because you don't know the first thing about hockey.

"The Predators rock!" Evans comes out of the bathroom punching his fist in the air, "You rock, Sergeant!"

"Thanks... Evans," she laughs at him, holding her hand up for the high-five he was offering as he passed them. He kicks off his shoes, taking a pillow from the head of the bed, he fell into the mattress next to Flanagan on his stomach, tucking the pillow under his chest so he can watch the highlights.

"I'm going to go grab some ice for your eye," SSG Pierce walks towards the door. "I'll be right back."

You watch her leave and you sit next to Evans on the bed the boys have claimed. It's big enough to fit all of you snugly so you don't have to worry about the awkwardness that would commence if you tried to share a bed with SSG Pierce.

You're not sharing a bed with her. That was a ridiculous notion. You would rather sleep on the floor than put yourself so close to temptation.

"I'm sorry about messing up our ride back," he looks up at you.

"You're fine," you put your hand on his head and mess up his hair. "We're just lucky that Pierce is being so cool about this."

"You think she's gonna tell Karofsky?"

"I'm not sure yet," you say honestly. "It's so weird that Flanagan didn't even hesitate to call her."

"I know," he sighs, "I think you and I would've rather walked back to Campbell then called the people that are supposed to take care of us."

"Isn't that fucked up?"

"Yeah."

"Shoulda been a medic," you're only half joking.

She returns shortly after, handing you an icepack, "Got if from my jeep, I keep a CLS bag there just in case."

You just put it on your face and try to ignore how perfect she is.

She disappears into the bathroom and comes out a few minutes later in a pair of pajama pants from her overnight bag, the face paint is gone and she's carrying a washcloth. You know it's creepy, but you watch her sit on the edge of the bed and try to shake Flanagan awake. When he doesn't wake up she takes the washcloth and cleans the cut on his lip.

"You know," she glances at you and you blush for being caught staring, "I hope you guys take him out again."

You're really confused, you took her soldier out and your DD got wasted and you all got into a fight, she should be telling you to stay away from him.

"What?"

"He," she hesitates double checking that he's asleep, "don't tell anyone this, Lopez, I'm trusting you here," she meets your eyes and you nod because she could trust you with anything, "but he doesn't have a lot of friends. He talks to a few guys in the motor pool but..."

You knew that, of course, he always was one of the odd men out. Maybe that was why she is always with him, just to make sure he wasn't alone.

"I had to _convince_ him to come out with you guys and try to have a little fun. He needs to talk to more people in the company than just me," she folds the washcloth so the small spot of blood on it is covered. "I can't be friends with him the way you guys can."

You understand. Her rank is keeping her from becoming too personable to her soldier. The professional boundaries to keep fraternization out of the ranks are taken seriously in your unit. The MPs are really strict about stuff like that.

A bitter sensation fills your chest.

Soldier and NCOs aren't really even allowed to be friends... relationships beyond that are completely out of the question.

"We'll keep an eye out for him," you look down at Evans and find him drooling on the pillow. "He get's along with Evans really well and I've been talking to him more recently."

"I've noticed," she says with a soft smile in her eyes.

You drop your eyes to Evans, who's starting to snore. You're not looking forward to sleeping with that racket going on.

"Are you sleeping with him?"

You don't think she meant to ask if you were having sex with Evans but that's exactly what it sounded like. She realizes her blunder, and back peddles

"I mean, shit, that's not what I meant—"

"I know," you put her at ease quick, the more awkward she gets the more awkward you'll get, then you just might have to pass out from embarrassment. You adjust the icepack on your eye and say, "but yeah, I'll just crash out with the boys. I'm not gonna invade your space. You're already doing us a huge favor by giving us a place to stay."

She glances over to the bed that has yet to be touched since everyone came into the room.

"I have moral reservations about making you sleep in the same bed as two boys," she stands, tossing the washcloth on the dresser next to the television. You watch her turn to the bed, scratching her forehead as she thought. "The Army might pack us in like sardines sometimes, but girls always get our own space."

You're about to tell her that it's fine, both of the boys are passed out and you don't expect them to do anything funny while she's in the room, but she's already pulling the blankets and rearranging them as she saw fit.

"There," she stands back, proud of her work. "Now it's like two beds."

You blink at her, lost in your haze of alcohol and the idea that she wants you to sleep next to her. She wants you to sleep there and she wants you to feel comfortable so she's rolled the comforter into a divider between the two pillows, one white sheet on either side.

"You're right," you nod slowly, agreeing to keep from saying anything stupid.

"So are you getting excited for Air Assault School?" she asks quietly, mindful of the boys sleeping.

"I'm..." you stand and move over to the other bed, choosing the side that's closest so you can make a quick escape back to Evans if you need to, "getting kind of nervous actually."

She's shutting off all the lamps around the room and soon only the glow from the television is left. When she looks back at you she's lost in the shadows from the television behind her. She's a wonderful silhouette of temptation. You focus on getting out of your heels and she sinks onto the other side. The movement she causes on the mattress makes this all so real. You're sitting on a bed with SSG Pierce.

You're drunk.

She's kind, and generous, and decidedly off limits.

"Don't worry about it too much," she tells you and you focus on her advice. "Just take it one day at a time. That's all you can do."

She sits against the headboard and starts flicking through whatever is on the television this late at night.

"I don't want to go and fail out."

"Then don't," she says not unkindly. "You're gonna go, they're gonna tell you everything you need to do. They'll explain it and give you two chances. All you have to do is want it badly enough, and I know you do."

You fall onto your back, wrapping the sheet around your body tightly, as if it will keep you in check. You stare at the ceiling and focus on your breathing. Hopefully you'll be able to convince yourself that you're tired. That not every one of your senses is reaching out to the woman next to you.

You swallow and say, "I do."

God you do.

You close your eyes and try to blank out everything around you. The boys aren't snoring, the television isn't playing America's Funniest Home Videos, she's not trying really hard to stifle her giggles next to you. The sound is frankly adorable and more than you could have ever wished to hear for about ten minutes straight.

Because your eyes are closed, you imagine her there next to you, biting her lip and trying to muffle her laughter with the back of her hand. When a particularly stupid video plays the bed moves, just ever so slightly, with the force of her internalizing her amusement into deep, chest shaking, silent chuckles.

You are immersed in the her joy, you can feel it, you can hear it, you can almost touch it. All you would have to do is reach over and take her hand...

The grip on your sheet tightens and you wish for sleep.

* * *

The next time you open your eyes the only light in the room is natural, a small tracing of dawn sneaking in from behind the large curtains on the windows. You assume that you finally fell asleep and that SSG Pierce went to bed shortly after.

You assume that whatever is warm and pressed against your forehead is not yours.

Your eyelashes flutter as you shift your gaze to what you can see of the hand on your forehead. She could be taking your temperature, the way the back of her hand is just laying across your forehead like that. You take in a breath through your nose, trying to get your barrings and figure out what to do. You bite your cheek to make sure you're not dreaming.

Slowly, without moving your head too much, you glance over to the woman next to you.

She's dead asleep, you can tell because she wouldn't be mouth breathing like that if she knew you were watching. You watch anyway, because it's the cutest thing you've ever seen, with her lips parted and her face completely relaxed. Sometime during the night she had decided that the rolled up blanked-barrier thing was her cuddle buddy and she has one arm and leg thrown over it, the other arm is snaked underneath and extended to fall on your forehead.

Her hair is simply everywhere. The hair you've dreamed of seeing free is spread haphazardly over the pillow and blanket, falling over her shoulders, covering the straps of her tank top so if you squint you can almost pretend that she's naked.

That's too much.

You have to shift your eyes away, closing them to keep from leering. For a moment, you just bask in the fact that she's touching you. You close your eyes and take a walk down fantasy lane where you're waking up together after staying up late _without_ two boys in the other bed. You take another breath and swear you can smell her skin.

Again, it's too much, and with a pain in your chest you roll away from her and out of her reach.

The backs of her fingers slide down the side of your face as you go and you have to choke back the whimper that might escape your lips. Just when you thought you were in the clear, her hand starts to move. Confused at the sudden lack of body heat, it's searching, feeling, grasping. You feel sleepy fingers wrap a strand of your hair between them, languidly, lazily, like lovers do when they're laying in bed.

Your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly that you're seeing stars.

Thankfully—depressingly—the hand stops, frozen. You hear the barest intake of breath and know she's awake, with her fingers in your hair. For the life of you, you're not sure how you are able to keep you breathing steady to feign sleep, but you do.

It's a slow and careful movement when she takes her hand back. Then once that's gone, so is the rest of her, the mattress shifts and she's out of the bed. Somehow, beyond your pulse hammering in your ears, you hear her shuffle, standing on her side of the bed and just breathing. You can feel her eyes on you, she's trying to figure something out. Does she know you're awake? Finally, she escapes to the bathroom and shuts the door behind her.

By the time the boys wake up and you pretend to roll out of bed with them, SSG Pierce is dressed and ready for the day. It's kind of fitting, she's looking every bit as put together as a Non-Commissioned Officer should be and you three are fighting bed head and wondering if the hotel had complimentary breakfast.

They do, so at least that's a plus and one more reason that this morning has risen the charts to be one of the best mornings of your life.


	5. TC 3 Dash 22 Point 20

TC 3-22.20: Army Physical Readiness Training.

* * *

The Army is a great way to gain life experience. It let you do things you've never thought yourself capable of; shooting an array of firearms, becoming the military version of a police officer, you're licensed to drive vehicles that weigh over two tons, and today... you're honing your skills as a gardener.

The rest of your squad is spread out around the building, trimming hedges, cleaning out gutters, and making the most of your pledge to your country. You've been out here for about an hour, there's still weeds everywhere, you're disgruntled, and totally lost your Soldier of the Month buzz about two weeks ago.

"Hey Soldier, where's the Ops Office?"

You look up from where you had been pulling a particularly large dandelion out of a crack in the sidewalk and find a Sergeant First Class standing above you. You hop to your feet, putting your hands behind your back, to stand at parade rest. You hope she doesn't notice that you're still holding the dandelion.

"Through the front doors, take a right, it's the..." you count in your head, "third door on your left, Sergeant, just passed the bathrooms."

She's taller than you, blonde, with her hair cropped over her shoulders. You glance at the Combat Action Badge and the Airborne wings on her chest. You already like her because she's Airborne and not Air Assault. Her deployment patch is from an MP unit, but you're not sure which one, you've seen other sergeants wear it before. There's three duffel bags and a rucksack on the end of the sidewalk and you wonder if she's new to the company.

You read the name on her uniform, Fabray, while she's giving you a once over with her cold hazel eyes. You can tell she's totally judging the dirt stains on your knees, but you could care less. You were told to pull weeds so you're doing it.

"Thanks," she starts to turn to the doors, and you drop back to the ground to finish pretending you love landscaping.

The front door burst open and the senior medical sergeant of your company is rushing out, "Oh my god, I thought it was you!"

You watch the new sergeant recognize the medic coming towards her. SSG Pierce's smile is bright and excited while SFC Fabray's is more amused by the turn of events. You can tell she's not one to throw around her emotions. They shake hands and clap each other on the shoulders, that turns into a one armed hand-holding hug. They break away looking each other up and down the way friends do when they've been apart.

"I saw you from my window and nearly died. I haven't seen you in forever," her tone makes it obvious that she thinks that it's been too long.

"Since I came out to visit in Colorado," SFC Fabray nods, putting her hands on her hips. "I have to say I liked that place a lot better than Kentucky."

"You're not the only one," SSG Pierce shakes her head, still smiling larger and brighter than you've ever seen. Whoever this woman is, she's important to the medic.

"This has gotta be better than Georgia though, and hey," the newcomer smiles a little more genuinely, "congratulations on the promotion."

The medic blushes, "Yeah, thanks, you too. E7, that's a big deal."

"Just means I get to do this," she smirks before punching SSG Pierce in the chest, right on her rank. It's a tradition, when a sergeant is promoted, sergeants senior to that NCO will hit them over their rank as a right of passage and way to say congratulations.

She laughs, taking it as a compliment and rubbing the spot on her chest, "What are you doing here? _Please_ tell me you're taking over Third Platoon."

"Yeah, I just got in from Fort Stewart," she glances around, taking in her new company area, when her eyes move towards you, you duck you head to look busy, "Sylvester is putting me on Third because some geezer is retiring."

Your Platoon Sergeant is retiring and you're ecstatic. He's old, and broken, and so stuck in the Old Army that when he says, _back in my day_, he means Vietnam. This chick, if she's friends with SSG Pierce, then she's probably just as cool as she is and hopefully a better Platoon Sergeant than the guy that's leaving.

"Did she have anything to do with bringing you here?" SSG Pierce asks.

"Of course she did," SFC Fabray rolls her eyes, taking her patrol cap off to run her hands through her bobbed hair and put it on again. "She called my Sergeant Major every morning for months. I was getting so much shit that it got to the point where they were glad to get rid of me."

"She did the same thing to me!" SSG Pierce laughs pointing at herself, "I was on orders to Alaska, you know I've always wanted to go there, and suddenly they were canceled and I'm here."

"She's pulling her old favorites," SFC Fabray mused, "I'm honored."

SSG Pierce scuffs her boot on the sidewalk, "Not that I don't love First Sergeant, half the time anyway... but I was headed for a nice cushy spot at the hospital there, I was finally gonna be a clinic medic instead of a line medic."

"Really, Pierce?" the woman scoffs and doesn't look convinced. "When you were with the infantry all you did was write me letters about how awesome it was to be kicking down doors with the boys. You live for that stuff."

"Yeah, I guess," she adjusts her cap, "but I get really tired of it sometimes, you know? We like... not everyone came back last time, and we all took it really hard."

"I'm sorry, Britt," SFC Fabray says it quietly, and with a familiarity that makes you feel a wave of jealousy mixed in with your sympathy for the medic.

"It is what it is," she glances around, trying to avoid SFC Fabray's eyes and she ends up finding yours instead. You see them widen and it's obvious that she hadn't intended any soldiers to be overhearing this conversation. She licks her lips, pulling her composure back together. "But hey, let's get you inside. I'm sure Sylvester can't wait to get her hands on you."

Wanky.

"I don't want to leave all my crap is on the sidewalk," the senior NCO hesitates, "I literally just got to Fort Campbell. I still have to go through reception and all that shit, but I wanted to check in with Sylvester."

"Do you have a car?"

"No," she scratches the back of her neck, "you know I don't drive a car."

"When's your bike getting here then?" she chuckles, shaking her head.

"My sister is driving it up this weekend," she doesn't sound thrilled at the thought.

"And where are you staying?"

"I'll have to see if there's anything open in transit housing."

"You should stay with me until you finish at reception and get put up on post, or you find a place," SSG Pierce offered without any hesitation.

"You sure?"

"Surer than sure," she takes a step towards the end of the sidewalk, "come on, let's throw your crap in my jeep."

"Ha, you finally got the jeep you wanted?"

"God yes, her name's Valerie, and I love her."

After that you see her around the company a few times that week. She's always just standing off to the side in the platoon office, watching the way the NCOs interact with soldiers. She never says anything so you all have really forgotten she's even there. It takes you a second to realize that she's trying to figure out how things work before she takes over completely. It's a nice break from the leaders that barge in and change everything to fit them when everyone has already been doing it a certain way for ages.

She's effortlessly stoic, focused eyes analyzing everything around her. When she speaks everyone will stop their conversations to listen. She has that kind of natural influence.

When she's not in the platoon office she's in the medic's, catching up with SSG Pierce and it's obvious that they've been friends for a while. You wonder if they were in the same unit before or if it was happenstance kind of meeting. Maybe they knew each other before they joined the Army? Needless to say, her presence just means that SSG Pierce has another reason to come into your platoon office, just to say hi.

You like SFC Fabray for that fact alone.

* * *

"Lopez, get over here."

You look around the hallway for whoever was calling and you find your new Platoon Sergeant standing outside the platoon office. She's looking at you expectantly and you tell Evans you'll catch up later, making your way over to her with a quickness in your step.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"Come with me," she's turning on her heel and walking down the hall. You follow her, trying to figure out what you did wrong. _Did_ you do anything wrong? Did they find out about the fight in Nashville. You know she's close with SSG Pierce but she wouldn't have said anything, would she?

The Platoon Sergeant stops in front of an informational board. It has all the company regulations, Commander's standing policy letters, and standard operating procedures. They cover things like what will happen to you if you break a certain rule, they tell you where the off limits areas around town are, or how often to expect urinalysis, and exactly what rights you have if you do get into any sort of trouble. Which is pretty much none.

She points to the board next to it.

That board is a little more dignifying. It's where the photos of the Solider and NCO of the Month are displayed to let everyone know that they're awesome and you should congratulate them. Your photo is next to SSG Pierce's and it's odd to see them together like that. You had to be in your dress uniform for the photo so your awards and decorations look pretty bleak compared to hers, but hey, you've only been in for two years. You have plenty of time to catch up.

"This is your face," she says.

You still don't have a read on her. She seems to have some sort of personality disorder because she's a completely different person with her soldiers then when you see her with SSG Pierce, you can't blame her though. Half the time she will say something with this barely-there smirk and you can't tell if she's joking or being completely serious and it bothers you.

Right now you're not sure if you want her to be joking or not.

"Yes, Sergeant," you confirm that it's your picture and you're still confused.

"How did you get here," she taps the glass covering your picture and looks at you closely.

"Sergeant Karofsky told me I was going to the board, Sergeant."

Something in her eyes changes, "He _told_ you you were going to the board?"

Now you're hesitant, because she doesn't like that answer, but it's the truth, "Yes, Sergeant."

"You didn't want to go," she supplies and you nod. "Normally, when people don't want to do something they don't put a lot of effort into it, but you won."

"I didn't want to look like an idiot," you tell her seriously. "It was my first board, Sergeant, I studied my ass off."

"Did Sergeant Karofsky help you study?" she asks in a way that tells you she already knows the answer to that question. She notices your hesitation and understands. "He told me that he was surprised when you won, and that was the first sign that he didn't help you out. He gave himself away."

You nod your head because somehow it's less of a betrayal to your NCO if you don't verbalize it.

"I'll handle that myself," she says to herself more than you. "He's been walking around bragging that his soldier won the board but he didn't do a damn thing to make it happen."

You wonder if SSG Pierce told her about the uniform inspection.

She taps the glass again, "I want Third Platoon to own this spot. If I have anything to say about it you're going to be the first of many soldiers winning this board from our platoon, and then..."

She points at the pictures above the Solider and NCO of the Month, to the pictures of the quarter board winners. Every three months the winners of the month boards compete against each other in the Soldier/NCO of the Quarter board. Eventually it all leads to the Soldier/NCO of the Year board.

You're just now realizing that you're obligated to another competition and you feel a wave of dread wash over you. The first one was stressful enough.

"You're going to be in that slot," she's gunning for you to win the quarter board.

"I am?" you ask quietly, she seems to have more confidence in you than you do.

Her eyes fall back to you with that smirk, and you know she's not kidding when she says, "I've already decided, and normally, I get what I want."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Your bracket is the only bracket third platoon has a chance in," she looks at SSG Pierce's photo and snorts, crossing her arms over her chest. "You know she's never competed in a board and _not_ won? She used to kick my ass all the time."

"You were stationed together, Sergeant?" you ask because you have an opening, and you hope she entertains your curiosity.

"Yeah, back in Fort Jackson, she was my platoon medic. Deployed together," she runs her hand through her hair, the other is rubbing a spot on her back, "part of an SRT team..."

You watch her trail off and just stare at a spot on the wall until she crossed her arms over her chest again, a hard look in her eyes when they come back into focus.

"Go do some pushups somewhere," she turns on her heel and starts walking off, "and keep studying for the quarter board, it's next month."

You don't miss the fact that she's headed to the medic's office.

* * *

SFC Fabray doesn't give you any more clues about her history with the senior medic, but she does make sure that SGT Karofsky knows that she means business about the quarter board, among other things.

"When was the last time you've laid out her Air Assault gear for an inspection?" she asks one day before morning formation.

It's about six-fifteen in the morning and you're all congregated in the company area, dressed in your PTs and waiting for six-thirty to roll around so you can fall in and get accountability. SFC Fabray has been your official Platoon Sergeant for about two weeks and you're loving it. She's hard on her NCOs and easy on the bullshit. She wants things done and done right, but she knows how to think smart about it.

"We... haven't done a layout, Sergeant," your NCO has to answer.

"So..." she tilts her head and seems to think about it, "she's going to school in two weeks, but she's not ready at all."

You want to say that you've had all your gear cleaned and packed for the last forever. You got the packing list from Evans and he showed you how to store everything in your ruck the way they want it at school. You feel like you should credit him a little.

"Sergeant, Evans gave me a packing list and I have all my gear ready for inspection," you say it in the direction of SGT Karofsky, so it looks like you're trying to confer about a time you can do the layout, and to cover your ass.

"Soldiers taking care of soldiers," SFC Fabray shows a little agitation by kicking at the grass under her feet, "I thought that was an NCOs job? Is that how Lopez won the board too? She figured it out for herself?"

SGT Karofsky tells you to bring your gear in for work call and you nod, glad to get the ball rolling on your school date. You're still not sure if your packet with all the necessary paperwork is done, but you're sure SFC Fabray wont let that slip either.

A bout of laughter catches your attention and you glance over to Headquarters Platoon where SSG Pierce is laughing with the soldiers in her squad. She makes the PT uniform, gray tee shirt and black shorts, look good. Even the reflective belt around her hips seems to accentuate them perfectly. You've always loved her shoes. She has about five different pairs of running shoes, they're all a different bright neon color and completely out of regulation but no one ever says anything. You're sure not going to.

The company door opens and First Sergeant and the Commander walked out into the courtyard. All conversations settles down and you all stand at parade rest in your neat little rows and columns.

First Sergeant takes her spot at the front of the company and stands at attention, "Fall in!"

You all snap to attention.

First Sergeant continues, "Receive the report!"

All the Platoon Sergeants do an about face and receive accountability reports from the squad leaders. They in turn give their reports to First Sergeant and when it's known that no one in the company has gone AWOL or something stupid like that, you're released to conduct morning PT.

"What's on the PT schedule for today?" SFC Fabray asks everyday and you think it's because she doesn't like the PT schedule.

"Muscle failure, Sergeant," one of the squad leaders answers. "We're working upper body today."

She looks at him like she's bored with the concept and says, "Stretch them out."

He takes her spot at the front of the platoon and she walks off as you all start your stretching routine. You watch her wander over to Headquarters Platoon and find the one staff sergeant she talks to more than any other person in the company.

SSG Pierce is still standing in her formation as the second squad leader, Flanagan by her side as always. She smiles at what SFC Fabray is saying and nods her head. The medics fall out of formation and follow SFC Fabray back to Third Platoon.

"Alright," she looks at her soldiers and you honestly have no idea whats coming next, because why she would want the medics is beyond you. "We're going for a run. Anyone who wants to come with is welcome."

"How far?" someone asks the obvious question because muscle failure days are much easier to slack off on than run days.

"It doesn't matter," she looks over to SSG Pierce who's trying not to grin. "We're gonna run and when we're done, we're done. Simple as that. Either you're in or your not."

Everything about it makes you think that she's planning on more than the usual run and understandably no one is jumping at the chance to get in on that. Something in her eyes just screams out at you, like she's daring anyone to join her. You're stepping back to fall out of the formation before you can think better of it.

"I'm up for a run, Sergeant."

That draws a few eyes because you're the first to complain about running, but the people that you're trying to impress don't know that.

SSG Pierce's eyes find yours and then she really smiles. You'll run ten miles just to see that smile directed at you again.

"Is that it?" SFC Fabray scoffs at her platoon, "Lopez is the only one with balls around here?"

SSG Pierce starts laughing and pulls Flanagan towards the road. You follow, trying to keep the smirk off your face.

A few sergeants in you platoon try to join after that comment but SFC Fabray sends them back saying, "You had your chance. We'll be over here doing some _real_ PT if you need us. Don't wait up."

Now it's a gut check, you've just made a big deal of yourself by accepting this challenge, you had better put on a good show. You don't want to look like an idiot in front of your new Platoon Sergeant or SSG Pierce. Especially SSG Pierce.

"Alright," SFC Fabray joins you after giving real instructions to the squad leaders and nods to the medics, "you know the route, B. I'm following you."

"Should be fun," SSG Pierce sends a sly smile to you both.

She's a runner. You know it because her squad has more run days than muscle failure days and more often than not, the medics will just take off in the middle of PT hours and might not even make it back before they end. You could also point out that she's built for it, with her slender frame and long legs. She's probably one of those girls that could just go for hours.

Your face is heating up because your mind is slipping into the gutter and you focus on falling in next to Flanagan, your leadership running alongside each other in front of you.

"If you have such a problem with the PT schedule you should just change it," SSG Pierce says casually.

"I don't want to change too much just yet, I just took over," SFC Fabray comments. She must be a runner too, by the way she can run and hold a conversation at the same time. "Besides, I'm probably going to wait until our next PT test that way I have proof that things need to change."

"Good point."

"I'm worried about a few people making weight," she says as an afterthought. "Lopez, does Karofsky usually make weight?"

No. Sergeant Karofsky has been failing the Army height and weight standards for a while, it's something that's happened so often your old Platoon Sergeant would brush it off like it was normal.

"He makes tape, Sergeant," you say to almost defend him. It's true. He might weigh more than he's allowed, but the his body fat index isn't higher than the allotted amount.

"Probably because his neck is the size of a tree," SFC Fabray grumbles.

"Don't be mean," SSG Pierce scolds quietly, but she's sending her friend a smile.

"The guy's fat," she justifies herself, "you know how I feel about fatties."

"You would kick them all out of the Army if you could," the medic rolls her eyes a little, "but I think Karofsky just needs... direction."

"Yeah, direction _away_ from McDonald's and _to_ a gym."

You and Flanagan share a look and bite back a laugh.

SSG Pierce just shakes her head and keeps running.

"And you're just saying that because you live in Fatty Platoon," SFC Fabray teases.

"Don't call it that," she says with a warning tone, "my section has the highest PT average _in the company_."

"That's because there's only two of you."

She glances over to SFC Fabray and it's one of the few times you've seen her look genuinely angry, but she doesn't say anything, she just keeps running.

"I'm messing with you, Pierce," your Platoon Sergeant says seriously, "you know me better than that."

"Yeah, I'm sorry," she shakes it off. "It's just that a lot of the highers are really quick to brush us off."

"I bet you could both score three hundreds and they'll still find a way to knock it down to a fluke," SFC Fabray agrees in a way that implies she knows SSG Pierce had been dealing with this problem for a while. "It's like this unit doesn't approve of people doing well."

"Yeah, something like that," SSG Pierce waves and you all follow her off the road and towards a trail head at the edge of the woods.

You glance at Flanagan but he just smiles at you.

About twenty minutes in you've gone almost three miles and you're keeping up pretty well. The trail is actually kind of fun, small hills and the woods make it feel so natural. You've lost your formation and now SSG Pierce is leading the rest of you. She laughs, throwing over her shoulder, "This is where it get's hooah."

"What the hell does that—"

You're on SFC Fabray's heels when you make it around the bend just in time to see SSG Pierce vault over a fallen log. It's about three and a half feet from the ground and she clears it effortlessly. Hand on one side and feet flying over the other.

SFC Fabray is quick to match her but her smile is rueful, "Pierce, you're fucking insane."

You're willing to agree with the sentiment as you make it over the log. Your tennis shoes hit the dirt trail and you're smiling too. This is fun. You're ready for whatever she's going to throw at you next. It turns into a series of logs that you have to jump over, all different heights and one so high you have to duck under it because there's no way you could get over it like SSG Pierce did.

In front of you SFC Fabray is mumbling, "Did the whole damn forest fall down?"

Once you're over the last log in this stretch of trail you're jumping over a trench in the ground that looked like a runoff stream. Had this trail been hanging out in the woods behind the Air Assault School this entire time? You would run this every morning, just because it's not the everyday boring PT that you're used to.

SSG Pierce leads you out of the woods and what you see in front of you is as incredibly ridiculous as it is hilarious.

"What the fuck—"

You're staring at a wall of dirt, its actually a hill, gravely and broken down, maybe forty feet tall, and at a very steep incline. SSG Pierce is already working her way up, with those amazingly defined calf muscles. You're feeling light headed and it's not from running.

"What is that?" SFC Fabray asks as she jogs forward, taking a look at the large hill.

"It's the railroad tracks," SPC Flanagan offers from behind you.

"Right," she's laughing now, pushing some hair out of her face, and with a running start she takes the hill at a storming pace. You follow along, thighs burning and chest heaving by the time you get to the top. SSG Pierce is there, standing on the tracks and ready to go. The sun has risen and it's making the small trace of sweat on her face glisten. She's beautiful. You're too busy staring to watch your footing and almost fall down the hill.

"How you doing, Lopez?" she sends you a large smile.

This is totally worth it.

"Just dandy, Sergeant."

"Good," she turns and starts down the tracks, her feet falling perfectly on the old wood laid into the gravel.

You run until you hit a main road and it takes you back to the company area. You see your platoon finishing up their own session, none of them are sweating as much as you are and you're starting to think you sweat more than the average person. SSG Pierce slows to a jog and then stops around the place Headquarters usually does PT.

"Whoo," she's excited and still on a runners high.

You're trying to act like that wasn't a big deal and that you weren't struggling towards the end. You hope it's working.

"Good run," SFC Fabray is pulling her arm over her chest to stretch it, "the route was... fun."

"I like to keep things interesting," SSG Pierce smirks.

"I liked it, do you know how long it is?"

"Just under six," she answers, looking at her watch, "we made pretty good time. That was our usual pace."

"Strong work, Lopez," SFC Fabray gives you a small nod and you feel like you've impressed her.

Score.

"Now go shower," she scrunches up her nose, "sweaty soldiers make me vomit."

"Fabray," SSG Pierce hits her on the shoulder and tells Flanagan to take off too.

You don't need to be told twice. You head over to the parking lot to drive back to the barracks.

"Hey, Sergeant Fabray is always going into the medic's office to talk to Sergeant Pierce, right?" you ask him when you're on the other side of the road and out of earshot from everyone else.

"Yeah," he nods, "they're friends."

"What do they talk about?" you're trying to keep from looking completely invested in the answer.

"A lot of stuff," he shrugs, "they were at Fort Jackson together, part of some special response team, MP stuff I don't know anything about. She's living at Sergeant Pierce's place until she get's her housing figured out, and even then... I'm getting the idea that Sergeant Pierce kinda wants her to stay with her."

"Really?" you ask, "Why?"

"I don't know, it feels like they go way back," he glances back to the Sergeants who are meandering towards the other end of the parking lot where SSG Pierce's jeep is parked. It's obvious they had come to PT together.

You see her arrive with SFC Fabray, they take lunch together, they leave together. It's kind of weird because you never see SSG Pierce talk to any of the other NCOs on a personal level. Sure, she's always polite, and maybe its just because you're not close to Headquarters Platoon that you don't see how she is with those NCOs but... maybe Flanagan isn't the only medic without any friends.

While you're still, very much, jealous of SFC Fabray's closeness to the medic, you're glad for her presence. Because your favorite staff sergeant has been smiling more since her arrival, she's joking around in formation in a way she's never done before, and she seems... happy.

* * *

Your gear is laid out and you're standing by for SGT Karofsky to come and inspect it. You're still stiff from this morning's fun-run, as SFC Fabray likes to call it. You have to admit, it was kind of fun. She's been telling everyone that it was ten miles long and people keep asking you if it's true. You know better than to tell the truth.

"Ah, here we go."

You look up from where you had been playing on your phone and see your Platoon Sergeant and the senior medic walking towards you. They're both holding cups of Starbucks and walking in like they own the place. They might as well as far as you're concerned.

"Where's Karofsky?" SFC Fabray asks you.

"I don't know but," you glance at the clock, "I'm early, Sergeant."

"Huh," she knows what that's code for.

SGT Karofsky walks in at that moment, and you can tell he's worried that they found you waiting here for him because he gives them an overly bright and cheerful greeting of the day, "Good morning, Sergeants."

"It's a morning," SFC Fabray frowns at him and takes a sip of her coffee. "Sergeant Pierce, will you help me audit this layout, I've never been to this ridiculous school. I don't know what I'm looking for."

"Of course," she nods, happy to help.

"The medic?" his eyes glance to the place where her Air Assault badge should have been, if she wanted to wear it. "Is she even—"

"You'd better think really hard about finishing that sentence."

"I—" he knows he just stepped in it.

"Sergeant Fabray," SSG Pierce says quietly to the other blonde, hoping to calm her down.

You've never seen the Platoon Sergeant lay into anyone before, she still kind of new and has been waiting for the right time to assert her authority. You're not sure if right now was the planned occasion of if she's just out to defend SSG Pierce. You wouldn't blame her for the latter, you were about to say something too.

"Hold my coffee," SFC Fabray hold it out to the medic and she takes it, biting her lip and looking uncomfortable.

"Sergeant, it was just a question," Sergeant Karofsky tries to redeem himself, and SFC Fabray isn't having any of it.

She crosses her arms and takes a step forward. She's shorter than him but that doesn't mean anything under that stare. You know for a fact that you wouldn't want anyone looking at you like that.

"You think that just because she's not wearing a badge means she's not Air Assault, Sergeant? Or were you doubting her because she's a medic?"

"No! That's not it, I've never seen her wear one, I didn't know—"

SFC Fabray reaches up and rips the Airborne badge off of her own uniform, tossing it carelessly to the floor next to her.

"Am I suddenly not Airborne?"

"No, Sergeant."

"Did I suddenly forget how to jump out of fucking planes?"

"No, Sergeant."

"I'm not wearing a badge," her voice is dripping with sarcasm and it's making your skin crawl, "so, I couldn't possibly be Airborne, could I?"

"I—"

She rips her Combat Action Badge off too, and holds it up to him.

"You know what this is, Karofsky?"

He opens his mouth to answer but she cuts him off.

"It's a fucking piece of tin," she throws that one across the room and it almost hits you in the leg, "it means nothing. The only thing that means anything is what you did to earn it."

"Yes, Sergeant," he mumbles, looking at the ground.

"You think you're so much better than the people without one of those stupid Air Assault badges?" she drives a finger into his chest next to his wings. "Frankly, I'm surprised that you were even able to pass, and didn't snap the rope with your fat ass!"

That was a low blow and you cringe. You might not like the guy all the time, but it's never fun to watch someone get tore up.

"Staff Sergeant Pierce," she points at the medic in the room, "is the only one of us with enough self-esteem to walk around without needing to try and prove that she's better than everyone else by the number of pins on her uniform."

You glance over to the woman in question and she's keeping a pretty impassive face, but her ears are pink from the attention SFC Fabray is putting on her.

"I want you to go into the hall over there and stand in front of her DA photo until you have _every single_ award, decoration, and badge memorized to include oak leaf clusters, accolades, and even the fucking number of knots on her goddamn Good Conduct Medal."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"You will not move until you can do that," her voice is low and threatening, "and then you will come to me and recite them."

"Yes, Sergeant."

He takes off without another word, the people around the room scatter like they weren't watching, and SFC Fabray walks back to your layout and takes her coffee from her friend.

"Thank you," she says, taking a sip. The murderous look in her eyes is gone but you're still on pins and needles waiting for her to lash out again.

"No, thank you," SSG Pierce rolls her eyes a little, "for defending my Air Assault honor."

"He needed to be taken down a peg," she mutters, "this is what, the second time he's showed up late to meet his soldier?"

"Yeah, but you weren't yelling at him about that," she scratches her nose and you can tell she's embarrassed.

"He deserved it, he was disrespecting you."

SSG Pierce doesn't look convinced, "I guess, but stuff like that isn't going to do me any good. You know?"

Something like recognition passed over SFC Fabray's face and she said, "You're right, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"It's alright," she glances at you and you drop your eyes like you weren't eavesdropping. "Are we still doing this layout?"

"Yeah," SFC Fabray nods, walking over to your gear and gesturing to you. "I mean, Lopez is still standing here like a deer in the headlights, we might as well take advantage of a silent soldier. Besides, I really do need to learn about this crap if I'm going to be sending soldiers to it."

"That's true," SSG Pierce walks over and hands you her coffee, you take it without a word. You can smell it, it has something with peppermint in it and you'll forever associate the smell with her. "Alright we're going to start with the big stuff."

She runs through the layout with SFC Fabray and shows her the ins and outs of what they're going to be looking for in the way of how things are placed and how to they should look. She corrects a few things you had wrong and tells you that you did a really good job for having to figure it out on your own. You try to keep from blushing too hard.

When she takes back her coffee your hands touch for a brief moment, she licks her lips and you duck your eyes to keep from staring at her mouth.

"Lopez, pack up your crap and go help out the rest of the platoon with the supply detail downstairs," SFC Fabray is taking one last look at your gear, trying to commit it to memory.

"Yes, Sergeant."

They walk away together and you focus on your work to keep from watching them leave.


	6. ATTP 3 Dash 18 Point 12

A/N: I'm writing this story for me, because I wanted a slow burn Army Brittana drama and couldn't find one that did it justice, and I'm trying to do that right now. This is not a "love story." This is a drama. This is a character based journey through a series of events that will, yes, eventually lead to a relationship. If you're not interested in that series of events, I'm not sorry. This is not a fluffy love story. There are plenty of those out there.

* * *

ATTP 3-18.12: Air Assault Operations.

* * *

This is it, your rendezvous with destiny.

It's so early that the sun isn't up yet. The only light is coming from the floodlights illuminating the compound in front of you. The glow is causing a ghostly silhouette over the soaring, prestigious, archway made from a large replica of an Air Assault badge sitting across two beams. Just beyond, the same image is painted onto the intimidating repelling tower that the school is known for. The air itself is just pulsating with the idea that you can't really do this.

You just might not be good enough.

You're going to fail.

Glancing at the clock on your dashboard, you sigh. It's fifteen minutes before the time you have to be here to be fifteen minutes early. You're so fucking nervous. You take another bite of the granola bar you've been nibbling on since you woke up this morning. Well, really you just rolled out of bed, you never were able to get to sleep last night. You were too nervous. You force yourself to eat the rest of it because you need something in you. It's going to be a very long, tiring, day.

Day Zero.

Today you'll register in with the school, lay out your gear for an inspection, go through the obstacle course, and then run a timed two miles.

Day Zero is all about making you do as many pushup and overhead arm claps as they can before they make you do an obstacle course that will require every ounce of your upper body strength The Cadre are dicks like that. You'll be alright, you want this. You want this so badly. You push out the voice in your head that's convinced that you're going to choke and focus on other things.

Your music is playing so loudly that you can't hear the jeep pulling up next to your car, but you notice the lights. Because you recognize that jeep anywhere, you look up and see her in the driver's seat. She waves at you and not in the hello kind of way, but in the come here kind of way. You shut off your car and climb out of it. Looking around, you find that yours are the only two cars in the lot. It's almost bothers you. You're not used to being alone with her, even if there's nothing secluded about being in the middle of an empty parking lot. It's still more private than you're used too.

You give her a quiet, "Morning, Sergeant."

You're not sure why she's here so early. Earlier than early. You shouldn't even be here, why is she here?

"Jump in, let me talk at you for a sec," she waves at you again, a small and nearly nervous smile on her face.

You jump into the jeep with much more grace than you managed the last time you were in it, and hopefully you'll be able to hold onto that level of dexterity for the obstacle course. She's wearing her PT gear, the reflective belt glowing in the lights above you. You wonder if she's cold, then remember it's already seventy degrees out and there's still three hours till dawn.

"I was on my way in, I have some stuff to finish up before first formation," she throws her thumb out in the general direction of your company area, "and I saw your car."

That... doesn't make any sense. You know the road she takes when she's coming towards the company and when she leaves for the day. You've noticed. The Air Assault School is completely out of her way and hours before first formation? She's here because she wants to be here.

She wants to be here... for you.

The thought is incomprehensible. You want to start the obstacle course right now just so you don't have to think of what that might mean. You don't want to put too much stock it in; she's just being an NCO, she's just being a great leader, because yours doesn't know you well enough to know that you'd be sitting in the parking lot right now.

But she does.

Somehow, she does.

"I just wanted to wish you luck," her eyes skate to you, then back to her steering wheel. "You're going to rock this course, Lopez, hands down."

You've always valued her words. If she told you to jump you would throw yourself into the air, if she said that your pants were on fire you would stop, drop, and roll. She just told you that you're going to own this course, you're not going to start doubting her now.

"I'm gonna kick it's ass," you confirm with a small smirk, for added measure you tack on, "Sergeant."

She smiles at you, happy with your confidence.

"When is Flanagan going to get a school date?" you ask because you wonder how he's been in the unit longer than you and still isn't Air Assault qualified.

She purses her lips and looks up to the school. She's debating something in her head, how to answer your question.

"It's a lot easier to get a slot when you're an MP," she shrugs a little. "You guys have precedence."

You realize that most of the people without badges are people from Headquarters Platoon. It's one more thing that sets them apart from the rest of the unit. One more thing for everyone to look down on them about.

"Our unit is so crazy about it," you mumble because you don't really have anything to say to that.

She makes a small noise, something between a snort and a laugh, "Yeah, I would love to wear my Army bling around the company and put some of those idiots to shame, but I'm not going to walk around like that when Flanagan gets so much crap from everyone about not having a badge."

You nod, understanding that if one of the medics is going to suffer, all of them are.

"But that's my battle with the training NCOs," she waves it off, "and not something you should be worried about right now."

"No, its nice to—" you had planned on saying that it was nice to talk to her, about anything.

Everything you learn about her, every detail of her life, work related or personal, is so important to you. You categorize the information in a secret place in the back of you mind. Anything adds to your collection of seemingly useless information about her, like how she loves the San Jose Sharks and once you overheard her say she loved grilled cheese sandwiches. You will neither confirm nor deny ever spending an entire evening in the barracks kitchen learning how to make one with the perfect cheese to crisp ratio.

Just in case.

"It's nice to take my mind off of this," you finish with a little gesture to the school in the distance. "If I think about it too much I'll end up freaking out."

"Don't do that, none of this is that serious," she's glancing around, realizing that a few cars have started to join you in the parking lot. "But hey, I'm gonna have to take off, I still have that stuff to finish at the company."

You slip out of the seat and step down onto the foot rail of her jeep, before you step off completely you turn back. She looks at you because you are looking at her, one hand on the gear shift and one on the wheel, waiting for you to speak.

For a second you forget what you were about to say, because she's looking at you with her complete and undivided attention, like you're the only other person in the world. You know that she's just being polite, you're not the only person in the world, you're just the only person on her jeep, keeping her from leaving.

Finally you say, "Thank you, for..." you shrug awkwardly and adjust your patrol cap because you can't say the things you're thankful for.

Thank you for sacrificing precocious moments of sleep on me.

Thank you for knowing just what to say.

Thank you for existing.

She understands what you're trying to say, or at least what normal people would say in this situation. Thank you for helping me chill out before my big day.

"Give me a reason to wear my badge in ten days," she gives you a challenge.

In ten days you'll graduate and in ten days SSG Pierce will be at the ceremony. For you. That's something to look forward to.

There's nothing subtle about the grin on your face and you hop off the step rail with a confident, "I'll see you there."

* * *

All things are easier said than done.

An hour into Day Zero and you've already done more pushups than you can count and you haven't even started the obstacle course yet. Your inspection went perfectly. All of your gear was perfectly cleaned, perfectly organized in the layout pattern, perfectly prepared for this school. Just like SSG Pierce taught you. The guys in formation to your left and your right were both kicked out for substandard preparation. The buttons on their wet weather jackets weren't all snapped together as worn. So they were gigged and dropped from the course.

They were kicked out for _buttons_.

Logically, you know that the school always receives more people than they're allowed to admit each cycle. Most of Day Zero is about weeding out candidates until they have a number they're allowed to accept. You're determined to be one of those people. But first, you'll have to pass the obstacle course.

Your first challenge is a tough one. Funnily enough, that's the name of the obstacle, the Tough One. The irony isn't lost on you as you make it to the front of the line and put your hands in the dirt, before you're even allowed to touch the graced structure you're required to pay your respect with ten diamond pushups, your feet elevated on the start log.

"Alright, Air Assault, let's go," the Air Assault instructor, identified by his black tee shirt and black cap, waves you along, "get up that fucking rope or go home."

You're getting up the damn rope.

That's the first question people ask when you get to Fort Campbell; can you climb a rope? It was all to prepare you for this day and you consider yourself prepared. You take the rope in your hands, reaching up as high as you can before gripping tight and drawing your legs up to your chest.

Rope climbing isn't about upper body strength, it's about technique. Okay, maybe there's a little upper body strength needed to keep yourself on the rope, but you have that in spades. The important part is looping the rope around your foot and trapping it there to get a good lock. Once you have that, you could just hang there all day and let gravity take care of it for you. It gives you the stability you need to reach up and take hold higher up.

You alternate reaching up and locking in until you get to the top of the rope and climb onto the log construction. When the safety tells you to move, you walk across the wooden beams, three feet apart and no more than four inches wide. This isn't something that takes skill, it just takes nerve, because while you're looking at where you're stepping, it's really easy to notice that you're twenty feet off the ground and it would be really easy to fall through the beams and—

You shake it off and get to the other side easily. Next is an inclined ladder of logs, thick and difficult to maneuver, but soon you're on top of that one too, letting out a loud and thunderous "Air Assault!" before you climb down the cargo net on the other side.

That wasn't so tough.

The next obstacle kills you.

Really, it shouldn't be that difficult, and you know less people fail this obstacle than any other. It's just... really tall.

This inclined wall, stands between you and your wings. You're familiar with it and know that if you stand next to it and reach up, there's still about five inches from your fingertips to the top of the wall. You hate how you're so short. When you get the go ahead you lick your lips and remember that you're a hundred and ten pound of pure badass and you've beat this wall before, you'll beat it again.

Again, it's all about technique.

All you have to do is sprint the eight feet between the start and the wall, jump up at the perfect time, reach up as high as you can and—you catch your fingers over the edge, using your momentum to kick your feet out and hook one of your heels over the side. You take a breath, because this is the hard part. You keep one hand on the boards and move the other so you're elbow is on the other side too. It takes a great heave, but you're able to get the rest of your body over the wall, landing on the other side rather ungracefully.

Whatever, Air Assault isn't about looking pretty.

* * *

Later that same week you look around and realize that three years ago you never would have thought this could happen. You're kicking ass in the school, not honor grad potential, but you're doing well for yourself. Today is probably the best day in the course and you would smile if it didn't take away from your game face. Your game face is really important to you.

It's actually kind of awesome. You've never been in a helicopter before, much less a Blackhawk. This is one of those really cool, oh my god, I'm in the Army and it's so sweet moments. You'll remember it for the rest of your life and you'll tell your kids about it one day.

You'll probably leave out the part where your hands are shaking and your lip is raw from worrying it so much.

You've checked the rigging on your Swiss seat about twenty times now and you can't tell if you have to pee or if it's just really tight. You hope it's just really tight because that means you're not going to fall a hundred feet to the field below you. The Rappel Master is standing off to the side, locked into the center of the cabin and giving instructions to you and the rest of the candidates.

He'll come over and check your gear again before you rappel out. The guy next to you is first up and you're glad for it, it gives you a chance to watch and run through everything in your head before you do it. Soon enough he's gone and you're up.

Your gear passes his inspection, thankfully, and you're finally hooked in to deploy out. Your rappel line is the first thing to go and it... takes a while to hit the ground. The wind from the rotors is nearly as loud as the sound of your heart. You're very high up and you wish you hadn't looked down, the trucks on the ground look like toys, their drivers look like ants. You clench your toes in your boots and try not too look as nervously excited as you feel.

You're about to voluntarily leave the safety of this aircraft on the assurances of a rope.

It's a great day in the Army.

The Rappel Master's voice brings you back into focus. It's very important to focus right now. Under his direction, you take your position; feet planted on the edge of the platform, leaning against the rope so your body is, for all intents and purposes, outside of the helicopter. You adjust the grip on your brake hand behind your back, ready to pull the rope to stop yourself from free falling to the ground.

He takes you through the rest of the rappelling commands and then he says, "Go!"

You bend your knees, bringing your body low and close to the body of the helicopter before thrusting off with all your might. Your brake hand moves away from your body, opening the rope for movement, and boy do you move.

You must have dropped at least twenty feet in the first couple seconds. Your stomach is somewhere in your throat and you love it. You pull your hand back behind your back to come to a slow and clean stop, you need to make three before you hit the ground to demonstrate control and an understanding of the technique. You have this shit down.

"Fuck yeah, Air Assault," you mutter to yourself because no one could possibly hear and you cant get the shit eating grin off your face.

Your feet hit the ground and you squat to give yourself some slack before standing and finishing out the drill. Your eyes trace your line back up to the helicopter, your heart is still pounding, you feel like you could sprint a twenty mile run and take on the Middle East all by yourself.

"Hey you, lets go!"

You snap back to reality, "Moving, Air Assault Sergeant!"

You'll graduate soon, the last big thing is the twelve mile ruck on the very last day. Twelve miles in three hours.

Cake.

* * *

You're never eating cake ever again.

You're on mile eleven. Mile eleven and some change. You can see the corner of Air Assault Street and the final stretch of road that brings you up to the finish line. The only thought going through your head is to put one foot in front of the other. A particularly large blister burst and you're bleeding through your boot. It stopped hurting somewhere around mile nine because your body has long gone numb since then. You feel no pain, you know nothing else but forward motion.

You shift your ruck on your shoulder and pick up a shuffle. You're close to fifteen minutes ahead of pace. You have plenty of time to finish this last mile. You just have to keep going. Keep going. You've been drinking water like crazy because you have the irrational idea that if you drink all your water, your pack will feel lighter. It's stupid but it keeps you moving and hydrated.

The corner to Air Assault Street comes soon enough and you pass the barrier the school has set up to keep traffic off the road. This is it, the final quarter of a mile, past the place you threw up, the place you nearly broke your ankle that last time, and the place where you found God.

_"Specialist Lopez, ruck faster!"_

You nearly trip when you hear the sound of your First Sergeant's voice over a loudspeaker. You get your footing back and look up. There's a platoon sized group of people on the other side of the road from the school, standing in the field and cheering you on. Most are from your platoon, SFC Fabray is out front next to First Sergeant and the megaphone. Off to the side is a squad from... Headquarters? Yes, that's Flanagan and SSG Pierce standing here with smiles on their faces, Evans is next to them and waving.

_"Less gawking more rucking! If you have time to appreciate the scenery you have time to do another twelve miles!"_

That gets you moving, and not just the threat. It's... pretty sweet that they would come out to see you finish. They're here to watch you succeed and it's awesome that they want to acknowledge how hard you've worked for this. It's amazing and you totally deserve it.

"Kicking ass, Lopez!"

You know the voice. Her voice. Here, cheering you on. It makes the pack on your back feel like a pillow and the sweat on your face feel like a badge of honor. She's here for you and you're not going to let her down.

Your official time is two hours and forty-seven minutes. You'll take it. After you confirm that, you're released to conduct personal hygiene and get a good breakfast. You feel like you could eat an entire buffet table.

You get over to your car, still in full gear and wanting to just... die. Collapsing over the hood of your car, you get reacquainted with the aches and pains in your body. The numbing adrenalin has drained away and now all you're capable of is breathing against the cool metal of your sedan. You don't even have the energy to take off your gear, your ruck feels like it's a permanent fixture on your back even though it's crushing your ribs and keeping you from getting enough air.

"Is that her?"

"Yeah, that's her car."

You would look up, but you're hoping that the camouflage of your uniform will save you from the mortifying embarrassment you'll feel if that's who you think it is.

"You alright there, Lopez?"

You look up because you have to, "Yes, Sergeant."

It's SFC Fabray and SSG Pierce, standing on the other side of your car, looking at you like they're not sure if they're supposed to laugh or pity you. Maybe both? SFC Fabray has that smirk on her face, like your inability to stand on your own amuses her endlessly.

"Let's get you out of your gear," she's moving towards you, "I want the medic to look at you before you leave."

Your eyes skate over to the medic in question and you blush when you find that she's already looking at you, a subtle pride in her eyes. You push yourself off your car and SFC Fabray isn't shy about unbuckling the strap across your chest and taking off your ruck for you. You stand there awkwardly because you're pretty sure you're capable of undressing yourself. You beat her to your vest just in case she wanted to do that too.

She helps you shrug out of it and asks, "Where's your PC?"

"In the front of my ruck, Sergeant," you answer, undoing the chin strap of your helmet and ignoring SSG Pierce standing next to you, and her eyes.

Your Platoon Sergeant hands you your patrol cap so you can take off your helmet and it feels good to get the weight off your skull.

"Your foot's bleeding," SSG Pierce moves her foot towards yours to point out the thin trace of blood seeping through the hem above your sole.

"Real bad blister," you explain, "I felt it bust and everything. I'll wash it real good when I get back to the barracks, Sergeant."

"You should probably put something on it," she reaches out and pulls your uniform top up at the shoulder. She feels the material between her fingers and says. "How much water did you drink on the ruck?"

"About two canteens," you answer for the amount of sweat that's soaking through your uniform. You really do sweat more than other people. It's probably the least attractive thing in the world.

"Are you cramping up at all?" she meets your eyes, and you look away. You are cramping up, so bad that you want to double over and roll into a fetal position.

"No, Sergeant, I'm fine."

SFC Fabray steps forward and before you can stop her, not that you would because you can't smack the hand of a Sergeant First Class away, she pokes you hard in the stomach. You nearly collapse, catching yourself on your car and sucking in a breath to keep from swearing at, or punching, her. Neither would do you any good.

SSG Pierce is looking at her like she wished she hadn't done that, but it's obvious that she's not surprised she did.

"What?" SFC Fabray shrugs, "you can see as well as I can that the girl's hurting. I'm just a little more direct about getting her to stop trying to be tough."

"Yeah, but you didn't have to make her hurt more," she says under her breath. "Lopez, I'm sending Flanagan to the barracks to meet you with an IV and some moleskin for your feet, alright?"

You're able to manage a strained, "Yes, Sergeant."

"And good job on the ruck. It's not Airborne, but whatever, at least you tried," SFC Fabray adds in. You can't tell if she's being serious or not. You think she's kidding with you, you want her to be kidding with you so you take it that way. "We'll see you at the graduation ceremony."

* * *

You're cramping up so badly that you're barely able to make it to the door when Flanagan knocks. You pull it open with a groan, "I feel like I'm gonna die."

"I thought you said you were—"

SSG Pierce pauses when she looks up from her phone and sees you there, standing in your doorway half dressed. Literally half dressed. Your pants aren't even buttoned and you're not wearing a shirt.

Her voice is strained when she finishes with, "fine."

"I am fine," you resist the urge to hide your body behind the door because that would make this more awkward.

She's not doing much better. Her eyes are dancing around, from your stomach, to the wall next to you, to your arm, straining to hold the door open, to the ceiling, to the modest black cotton bikini briefs that are visible from under your sagging uniform bottoms, then up to the matching sports bra. She closes her eyes after a fraction of a second on your chest, squeezing them shut tight and bringing her hand to her temple like you're giving her a complex.

"What are you—" she opens her eyes and keeps them resolutely on yours, "if you thought I was Flanagan, why would you open the door like this?"

You've never been particularly shy about your body. You know you have a great body, you and Evans spend so much time making it that way. Besides, in the Army you're forced to dress and undress with other people all the time. There was nothing private about the showers in basic training and maybe you've lost some of your modesty along the way. Right now, you wish you had a little more foresight; you don't want her to think you're a barracks rat. You don't want her to think you're _that girl_, showing off to all the boys for the attention. You're not that girl, you're nowhere close to being that girl.

"Because Flanagan is harmless," you answer honestly. "You know that better than me, Sergeant. He'd probably turn into a blushing mess and refuse to come in until I put a shirt on."

She closes her eyes again and sighs, "You should probably do that."

"Where is Flanagan?" you eye the bag on her shoulder and realize that she's here to give you the IV and take care of your throbbing heel.

"The dental appointment I forgot about," she explains even though she doesn't owe you an explanation. "Go get dressed so I can get you hooked up."

"We're going this here?"

"Did you want to walk down to the lobby?" she asks slowly because she knows that you're in no condition to walk anywhere.

You bite your lip, "My room's a mess."

"I've lived in the barracks before," she gives you a breath of laughter. "I know how it is."

"Are you going to judge me?"

"Are you going to put some clothes on?"

She's almost smirking and you nod, glad that some of the initial awkwardness is slipping away. You pull the door open wider and let her inside. Her eyes glance around the room while you pull a fresh tan tee shirt out of your dresser and pull it on. When you look back she's focused on setting up her stuff at your desk.

You hobble over to the desk, your heel is raw and you're pretty sure that your body hates you.

"Sit down."

You take your seat and watch her set up the IV. She spikes the bag and flushes the line so there's no air in it before closing it off. Her hands are confident, practiced, laying out her materials in a precise way that you're sure she's been using for years.

"You're not scared of needles are you?" she sends you a sly look when she realizes you've been watching her take the catheter out of the wrapper.

"Psh," you scoff, "no, Sergeant."

Your eyes follow the curve of her lips as she smiles.

She takes up a constricting band and asks, "You ready?"

"Yeah," you give her an arm, familiar with the process.

She wraps the constricting band around your bicep and her fingers trail down to the inside of your elbow. The sensation is heart stopping and your foot kicks out a little from the shock of it. Her fingers feel delightful skimming over the skin inside your elbow to find a vein she likes. You've never felt like the inside of your elbow was a very sensitive area of the body, but you feel the goose bumps rise on your skin, and a blush on your face.

"You have," she says it quietly, like it's truly very important, "really good veins."

With the low level in her voice, she might as well have told you you're beautiful. You're feeling fucking giddy by her observation/compliment.

"Thanks," you smirk, looking up at her with more gull than you should have in this moment, "I've been working on them."

She blinks, confused. Then she realizes you're being a smartass she pinches the skin of your forearm.

"Ow," you whine around your grin.

"Hold still," she snaps on a pair of black latex gloves, cleans your skin with an alcohol pad, and takes up her needle.

You take in a breath as the needle slips through your skin with a slight pinch. It's less painful than the time Flanagan gave you an IV for practice and, before you know it, she's hooking up the line to the catheter without spilling a drop of blood. She hits the safety on the needed and sets it aside. When she unstops the line you feel the cool fluid rush into your vein and you keep yourself from sighing.

"This will help with your cramps, you're pretty dehydrated," she's putting a small strip of tape over the insertion site to make sure the catheter doesn't move and packing up the wrappers she's left on your desk. "Let me take a look at your feet."

"They're worse than last time."

"And I've seen worse, trust me."

She maneuvers you so that you're sitting on the desk, your bad foot crossed over your thigh, and she's sitting in the chair so she can get a good look at it.

"This is pretty bad," she scrunches her nose at the blister, soggy and gross from the shower you just finished up.

"I know right?"

"I think it's safe to say that your boots aren't very good for rucking," she muses, "not that it matters anymore, you're probably not going to be rucking anytime soon."

"Thank fucking god," you roll your eyes, "I'm gonna be so sore tomorrow morning."

You're always sore after you work out, and it's always worse the next morning. Everyone knows that.

Everyone knows that, but this is a perfect, _that's what she said_ moment. The way her ears pink and she coughs into the back of her hand makes you thinks she realizes it too.

She patches up your foot and you watch curiously. Hers is a skill you have no tolerance for. You're not good with people, you wouldn't care if they said their stomach hurt, you'd probably tell them to suck it up. You're not about to get all up in someone's foot like she is. By the time she's finished with that you still have a third left on your IV. She packs up what she doesn't need and leans back in her chair.

"How do you feel?" she asks you, "Now that you're Air Assault?"

You shrug, not wanting to make a big deal about it, "Not much different."

She looks at you carefully, "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't dim your shine," she shakes her head. "You worked really hard for this. You're allowed to be excited about it."

You grab your toes, hiding them because you've always found your feet to be ugly, and you don't want her to look at them any more than she has to. "Sergeant Fabray hasn't worn her badges since she got into it with Karofsky. You guys are right, it's not that big a deal."

"That's not what we were trying to say," she's looking at you like you're silly for wanting to be like them, and you're kind of embarrassed that she knows you look up to them both.

"That's what I got out of it," you mumble in a way that invites her to expound on the idea.

"I told you," she looks at your IV and gauges how much more time she has a reason to be here, "that I don't wear them for Flanagan, and that's kinda only half true."

You quirk your eyebrows and hope she feels comfortable enough to tell you the other half.

"A while ago," her eyes move around your desk to avoid yours. They skim over the stack of CDs, your closed laptop, the pictures tacked to the wall, "I realized that the attitudes around this company… well, if you want to make your life easier you have to fly under the radar."

"What do you mean?"

"There's always someone out there trying to dim your shine, Lopez," she smiles thinly.

You think back to what she said to SFC Fabray, "Who's brushing you off?"

You know it's beyond your right to ask.

You don't expect an answer and she doesn't give you one, not a real answer anyway, "People who haven't been there, they haven't done that, and they're jealous that I have."

You glance at her deployment patch and wonder if it's the odd rivalry between MPs and the infantry that's been giving her trouble. She's a medic, she shouldn't be involved in some stupid gripes about what kind of unit is better. Her service in a previous unit shouldn't be held against her.

You catch her looking around your room, it's really not that messy. All of your laundry is in your hamper... or close enough to look like you tried, your bed is made-ish. The mess is really just your gear tossed in the middle of the floor because you were too tired to put it in your wall locker where it goes.

She's looking at the posters you collect.

One wall is covered in tributes to your favorite classic singers, Billie Holiday, Patti Page, and a few others. On the adjacent wall is your classic thriller collection, _The Exorcist, Suspiria, Le Maschera del Demonio_. You've always had an affinity for things before your time. You'll watch an old movie or listen to a classic record and feel like you missed out on something special. Her eyes linger on your poster of _The House on Sorority Row_, the dainty woman dressed in nothing more than the sheet she's clutching to her chest. You feel like such a lesbian.

"Evans gave me the _Night of the Living Dead_ poster," you tell her, to avert her attention, "my taste isn't usually that nerdy."

She chuckles at that, "I like your taste, in music that is. The movies... not so much."

"What?" you can't resist the opportunity to tease her. "You scared of horror flicks?"

She flushes a little, rolling her eyes, "No, I just don't like them."

"So you're scared," you shrug like it's no big deal, and the smirk on your face is just brimming, "that's cool, not everyone can handle Hitchcock and the gang."

"I'm not scared," she presses in a firmer voice. "I'd just rather watch movies about people living happily ever after, than getting killed by some creepy man in the woods."

"Those are my favorites," you admit. "I like to pretend that it's happening to me, and try to think about what I would do in that situation."

"You think you would survive?"

You scoff like it's even a question, "Hell yeah."

She laughs at you and realizes, "You're pretty cocky."

The smile on your face dims because you don't associate that word with a compliment and she notices.

"I didn't mean it in a bad way," she reaches up to shut of your IV because the bag is about to run out, "some people can pull it off and make it..."

Make it..?

Make it what? You're waiting for the rest but she's too busy pealing away the tape that's securing the catheter in your arm and fishing out a square of gauze to finish her statement.

"Make it..?" you prompt quietly.

You're crossing all sorts of lines and you haven't addressed her by her rank since she first walked in but... you can't find it in yourself to care right now, and something in her eyes tells you that... maybe she doesn't care either. That here, alone in your room, you're allowed to have a conversation as... people, and not as senior and subordinate.

Her blue eyes meet yours and they're smiling more than her lips, "Some people can be cocky and make it... almost charming."

"Almost as in..." you bite your lip and want her to tell you that you're charming. She just laughs and shakes her head. You take a gamble, "Am I close?"

She looks at you and she can't decide what to do with your sass. Her eyes are glancing between yours. Maybe she's debating the answer, maybe she's debating if this is inappropriate or not. You quirk an eyebrow, just to really mess with her and her eyes narrow in a nearly warning manner. She slips the catheter out of your arm and you wince at the sting.

The medic presses the gauze square to your injection site and says. "Hold this there."

You do as your told and she packs up the rest of her things. She zips up the thick zipper of her aid bag and pauses. Standing next to you, she's as tall as you are sitting on the desk so she can look you right in the eye as she says, "I'm leaving you some ibuprofen, take it with your breakfast."

"Yes, Sergeant."

Your tone is bordering on playful and she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth to keep herself from saying what's on her mind. You want to know what she's thinking. She shoulders her bag and you watch her walk to the door, she hesitates with her hand on the door, throwing you one last smile over her shoulder, "You're close, Lopez, but you still have a long way to go."

You heard once that close only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Good thing you're qualified on one of those things, because today, close totally counts.


	7. TC 25 Dash 30

TC 25-30: Company Training Meetings.

* * *

"Here's our new stats for the number of people on medical profile per platoon," you explain the slide on the large white screen. "We've had no new injuries since last month and the few we have will return to full duty by the end of the week."

The command team nods approvingly and you continue your briefing to the important people in the company. All the Platoon Sergeants and their lieutenants are sitting along one side of a oval table, the section leaders from Headquarters Platoon opposite of them, and at the head of the table, looking at you directly, is the First Sergeant and company Commander.

These Command and Staff briefings are your least favorite part of being a section leader. You are responsible for keeping them updated on everyone's physical readiness and the overall health of the company. While you love your job, you hate paperwork.

"Thanks you, Sergeant Pierce, for that _delightful_ brief," First Sergeant Sylvester waves you away and you know that a little sarcasm is going easy on you. "I'm glad that someone is tracking the broken losers hobbling around this company, because as far as I'm concerned they might as well just crutch themselves onto 41A and get hit by a conveniently scheduled semi-truck."

"Yes, First Sergeant," you nod like you agree because it's what she wants to see and take your seat with the rest of the section sergeants, right between food service and supply.

As the meeting drones on you zone in and out, the MP's patrol schedule is like, literally none of your concern. The only part you care to remember is what schedule Quinn is on. Her platoon is going to be on night shift for the next month and you feel bad for her soldiers, well, for one in particular.

One of the training NCOs brings up the schedule for the next five months and he starts explaining everything on the slide like you can't read. Your eyes fall on the last month that isn't labeled anything but, _IRAQ_.

You're deploying in five months.

You came to this company to deploy with them, Sylvester told you that much when you were first roped into the mess. You're going to Iraq but, they don't know where yet exactly, or what you'll be doing once you get there, and there's always a possibility that you'll be forwarded to the effort in Afghanistan, so really…

They don't know anything beyond the fact that you're deploying in five months.

All you know is that you don't want to get a detainee operations mission. Running a prison of terrorists who do nothing but hate Americans and throw shit—_literal_ shit, not metaphorical shit—on you ever chance they get is not the way you want to spend twelve months of your life. You're praying you don't get that kind of mission.

So far the intelligence says you'll be doing roving patrols and teaching the Iraqi Police how to do their jobs. You're not really looking forward to that either, but at least they won't throw shit at you.

You hope.

"First Sergeant," you say when there's a break in the conversation, "I was curious about our request for more medics. It's just me and Flanagan. Is there any word about filling our two open slots?"

You know the company is supposed to have four medics, one for each platoon. Right now you only have two, and five months to fix it.

"And I'm still missing a lieutenant," Quinn throws a thumb to the empty seat next to her, where her platoon leader should have been.

"What, can't run a platoon without some brass holding your hand?" an operations NCO asks snidely.

You see Quinn's eyes narrow, "No, but if I had a platoon leader I could spend more time with my soldiers and less time trying to get you to do your job."

Captain Schuester, the Commander and a man you've never been fond of, interrupts before anything else could come of the argument, "We did get word that both, a medic and a platoon leader, will be joining our ranks within two months. Just in time for the pre-deployment train up."

First Sergeant rolls her eyes from beside him, she likes it when the NCOs around her start fighting, she likes to watch and see who wins the argument. One way to get in good with her is to be able to cut down the people around you. Quinn is good at that.

"Do we know anything about them, sir?"

You're hoping for someone with experience, maybe someone that's already been on a line unit and knows how to handle themselves.

"When we know, Sergeant Pierce," he promises, "you'll know."

Like you thought, they don't know anything.

They have five months to figure it out.

"Don't worry so much, Pierce," Sylvester smirks at you. "I'm sure you could pull medical coverage for the entire company and make sure everyone gets home safe."

She means it as a compliment, and everyone else knows it too. She rarely compliments anyone, yet somehow, she's always complimenting you.

"In fact," she glances over to a training NCO, "I want Pierce and Fabray to head up the shoot house training we have in two months."

"But First Sergeant, we already have two sergeants lined up for that training."

"Who?" she looks skeptical already and when he gives her the names she scoffs. "Hell no, those idiots will get everyone killed, I want these two on it."

She ignores the fact that those two sergeants are in the room, and glaring daggers at you. You try to look as indifferent as possible while Quinn looks smug, happy to have First Sergeant's confidence in her skill level. The shoot house is a big deal. It's the most dangerous part of the pre-deployment training because it's a lot of weapons in a small space, people are moving very quickly, and it only takes one mistake. When you can pull that off without a hitch, you get noticed for it.

Someone has to say, "But Pierce is a medic."

"She's a damn fine medic," First Sergeant leans forward in her seat, it's an intimidating gesture and the sergeant that spoke draws back a little, "and she's done more tactical operations in both Iraq and Afghanistan then you've done in your wildest dreams."

That might have been an exaggeration, but you don't speak up because it'll just make things worse.

"And if you _dare_ undercut either of them at that shoot house, you'll answer to me," her threat makes everyone shiver.

"Lets give Sergeants Fabray and Pierce our professional courtesy, and really support their training efforts," Captain Schuester adds on. "We're all on the same team, remember."

First Sergeant rolls her eyes again when he's not looking, "Yes, _lets do that._"

Everyone wants to do the same thing, but only she can get away with it.

"Now, our last order of business," First Sergeant gets everyone to refocus quickly, "we have three Air Assault slots for the next cycle, and this is going to be our last chance to send anyone because I'm keeping everyone on lock down for the pr-deployment training. So, who are the nominations, one from each platoon."

Your Platoon Sergeant says, "There's four platoons, First Sergeant."

He's trying to stick up for Headquarters but it's a lame attempt. You can tell he hates that he's an MP in charge of a bunch of non-MPs. The Headquarters Platoon Sergeant position has always been considered a punishment.

"That's open to interpretation," First Sergeant brushes him off and you're not the only section sergeant that bristles at the comment.

First and Second Platoon give their nominations and then it's Quinn's turn to speak. If she hadn't already sent Lopez you would be rooting for her. You've seen her walking around the company with her new badge worn proudly on her chest. You're glad she decided to wear it.

"Flanagan."

You keep your eyes on Quinn while everyone else either looks at her or you. You can feel your face heating up with a mixture of nerves and annoyance. You hate it when everyone's looking at you, and you wish she had the sense to give you a heads up before she did this in front of everyone.

"I'm pretty sure Flanagan doesn't belong to you," someone says.

"Isn't he a medic?"

"You want a nomination," Quinn speaks up, "that's my nomination. Third Platoon took our PT test last week and the scores were abysmal. No one who hasn't already been to Air Assault School has proven to me that they're worthy to go."

"So what makes Flanagan worthy?" your Platoon Sergeant asks and you don't like the tone of his voice at all, "besides his connections."

His eyes are on you and you make sure you don't look away like you're guilty of something.

Quinn slaps her hand against the table to get his attention and when he meets her eyes she says, "Look at the training records, Flanagan scored a two-eighty on the physical fitness test and beat out all of my potential candidates by nearly twenty points."

You were pretty proud of Flanagan's score, in a test out of three hundred points, a two-eighty is pretty good.

"The only thing Sergeant Pierce has to do with this is getting Flanagan ready for the challenge, even though you never would have sent him in the first place."

Everyone is looking between you, her, and First Sergeant, trying to figure out what's about to happen.

"You really want to give up your platoon's slot, Fabray?" Sylvester sits back in her seat. She thinks that Quinn shorting her own platoon is funny.

"Yes, First Sergeant," Quinn nods. You know she's too stubborn to ever rethink her decision.

"Fine," she turns to the training NCO, "you have your names, we'll see who passes. This meeting is over, get out of my face."

You don't say anything, but the look you give Quinn tells her that you would really appreciate it if she followed you out of the conference room and towards a rarely used back door to the company. You throw on your patrol cap and step onto the stairs outside the door, a quick glance around lets you know that you're alone, or well out of ear shot. You can't be seen talking to Quinn like this, she still outranks you, but when you're alone that doesn't matter.

"What the hell was that about?"

She shrugs, "You wanted to send Flanagan to school, I had a slot. What's the problem?"

"The problem is that everyone already thinks I'm Sylvester's favorite," you wave towards the company like the building itself thought that about you, "now they think I have you in my back pocket too."

"Well, maybe you do," she's smirking, she doesn't get why this is a bad thing.

"Are you trying to get everyone to hate me? Didn't you see how they were looking at me in there?"

"Look, Britt," she's holding up her hands and trying to calm you down, "your Platoon Sergeant doesn't do a damn thing for you, what's the harm of letting someone help you out?"

"Quinn, you know that people get in a tiff when other people get ahead because of the people they know."

"It sucks to be them for not knowing the right people," she's always played these games. You used to say her nose is a power sniffer, and not because she's the first to complain about a soldier's body odor, but because she has a sixth sense about finding people that can be useful to her.

"I just don't want to give people a reason to want to mess with us," you frown. "Someone could make a fuss about us living together."

"I can handle their shit," she shrugs again and is smiling like she almost wants to have a drama battle with some of the other seniors.

Only _you're_ not a senior, you can't get away with what she can. It's only one pay grade but the rank that separates you and your friend is a big jump.

You have to say, "I can't. You know I can't. My Platoon Sergeant already hates me, and now it looks like I went behind his back to get Flanagan a school slot."

"Well, that's not true," she takes off her patrol cap to run her hand through her hair, you know it's her comfort gesture. She doesn't want to admit it, but she just put you in a bad spot, "You never asked me to give him the slot."

"_I_ know that, but no one else would ever believe it."

"Okay, fine," she leans against the railing to the stairs, rolling her eyes. "I'm sorry."

She knows she could eventually win over everyone in the company, or at least make enough allies to know that she won't be messed with, but that hasn't happened yet. She's still new to the unit and she doesn't understand everything about it yet. She's figuring it out with her usual quickness, but she's relying on her own history with Sylvester to protect her now.

"They can just fuck off."

"I can't tell my Platoon Sergeant to fuck off," you deadpan, "I'll get in trouble for that."

She laughs, thinking you were joking. She opens her mouth to say something when she stops, looking down and over the railing. Without a word she takes her patrol cap off again and throws it down into the corner between the stairs and the building.

"Ow," you hear a muffled voice from behind the large bush next to the stairs.

"Come out of there, you creeper," her voice as hardened and you're worried that someone heard you talk bad about your Platoon Sergeant and the rest of the highers.

"Moving Sergeant," SPC Evans crawls out from behind the bush and looks up at you with an embarrassed expression.

"What are you doing hiding behind that bush?" Quinn asks, holding her hand out for her patrol cap.

"We were told to scrape the moss off of the bricks around the building," he points to the foundation. It's absolutely covered with a deep green moss.

"Who told you to do that?" she asks, replacing her patrol cap on her head and walking down the stairs.

"It's part of the area beatification detail," he answers in a tired voice.

You watch her go over to inspect the moss, trying to scrape it off the bricks with her boot, "How have you been getting this off?"

"With this," he holds up a piece of metal. "I think it used to be part of a mop. Lopez fished it out of the scrap metal bin in the supply room."

"Where is she?" Quinn asks and you have to admit you want to know too. Her and Evans are rarely apart from each other.

"Sergeant Karofsky split us up," he answers quietly, not keeping her eyes.

He's looking between you and Quinn and you know he overheard everything you were talking about. You wished it hadn't happened, but you're glad it's him. He seems like a decent guy, and to your knowledge he never said anything to anyone about what happened in Nashville. Putting up a bunch of soldiers in a hotel room isn't something that certain people need to hear about.

"Why?" Quinn asks about Lopez. She's interested in the specialist and you can tell that Lopez is becoming one of her favorites. Not that she'll let it show just yet.

"We were kind of messing around," he shrugs awkwardly and you know he doesn't want to explain completely.

"What were you doing?" you press because you want to know what kind of trouble Lopez has been getting into.

"Nothing crazy, Sergeant. Karofsky just has this weird problem with people singing."

Quinn glances at you, almost disbelieving, "Singing? What do you mean singing?"

He blushes, and you watch carefully, "Like, singing to have some fun, it was just to ourselves, real quiet under our breath. We were trying to pretend we're not out here sweating and lighten the mood some. You know, embrace the suck."

That makes you want to smile, trying to picture SPC Lopez singing as she scraped moss off a wall, "What were you singing?"

"Not the division song, Sergeant."

You think back to the music posters in her room that made you feel guilty for liking popular artists like Ke$ha and Lady Gaga when her tastes are a little more... refined.

"Go get Lopez," Quinn tells him, "and give me that."

He hands Quinn the scrap of metal and runs off to find SPC Lopez.

"What is that?"

She's studying the impromptu tool, "It looks like it used to be part of a mop, you know the part that holds the mop head on the handle."

"Soldiers are so crafty," you chuckle. "It's actually kinda impressive."

"This is pathetic," she mumbles. "We expect them to do all of this work but we make it nearly impossible for them to do it."

"Supply has been backed up with stuff for the deployment," you explain on behalf of Headquarters. "I guess they think new holsters and ammo cases are more important than gardening supplies."

She's still looking at the piece of metal, "If my platoon is going to be out here beautifying a building that hasn't been renovated since the Korean War, they're going to have the supplies to do it."

"What are you gonna do, go buy a bunch of rakes and stuff?" you joke.

"Yeah, give me the keys to your jeep," she holds out her hand and you let out a short laugh.

"No way," you shake your head, "you're not taking my jeep."

"Why not?" she's grinning because she knows why.

"Um, because I'm still angry with you about the Command and Staff crap you pulled, and you've had more speeding tickets than I can count. Which is really awesome considering your a cop."

"Oh, come on," she scoffs, "I only get tickets when I'm riding my bike."

"That makes it worse," you say it lightly, but she knows you hate her motorcycle.

"And being a cop has nothing to do with it," she pretends she didn't hear your comment, "everyone and their mom speeds."

"Not everyone gets caught, though. So you must just suck at being sneaky."

"You're really not giving me your jeep?"

You can't tell if she's annoyed or impressed by the stand you're taking, but you shake your head regardless. She rolls her eyes, a hint of a smirk playing on her face.

"Then you're just going to have to drive me to the store," she says it like it'll be some great hardship for you, but she knows you want an excuse to get away from the company.

Evans and Lopez come jogging around the corner of the building.

You almost smile, if you know Quinn like you think you do then this is totally going to work out perfectly, "Fine with me."

"You needed me, Sergeant?" SPC Lopez comes to a stop in front of Quinn, Evans by her side. They stand with their hands behind their backs in a respectful show of parade rest.

She glances at you, it's brief and only a flicker in your direction, but she looks. She always looks.

Quinn looks her up and down with her unreadable stare, something she does to intimidate soldiers, "So you're a singer?"

This time Lopez's eyes skate to Evans, who shrugs next to her, "I'm not much of a singer, Sergeant. We were only fooling around."

"That's not what I hear," Quinn says, dead serious. You're keeping a straight face so you wont ruin her fun. "Why don't you sing the Army Song for me?"

"I'd really rather not, Sergeant," Lopez keeps her eyes. She knows she's being messed with, and in her dark eyes, you can tell she's not sure if she thinks it's funny or not.

"Sing the Army Song or do pushups," Quinn shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest, "but I wanted to hear your singing voice, I know Karofsky is a big fan."

You watch her debate it for a moment, and then she's leaning down, placing her hands in front of her and kicking her feet back. Evans drops to the ground with her and they start doing pushups silently.

You watch Quinn, because you can't want to watch the soldier at your feet. You're friend is disappointed in the result, it's obvious that she doesn't know how to play Lopez's game. That girl would rather do pushups than something that might make her look like a fool. She would do anything before hurting her pride.

"Alright, alright," Quinn tells them to get up and asks, "Evans, you drive a truck, right?"

"Yes, Sergeant," he answers, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Pull it around front, we're going shopping."

You're elated.

* * *

"You're not going to get to her like that."

"What?" Quinn looks at you as you walk through the parking lot of the shopping center on post. There's military wives toting small children, parking spots reserved for generals, and it sums up the last seven years of your life.

"Lopez, she likes doing pushups," you continue, "she think it proves how tough she is."

"Huh," Quinn purses her lips, thinking.

"If you want to get her to do something you have to like," you're only telling Quinn because you think she has the soldier's best interest at heart, "make it into a challenge. She likes proving people wrong."

"She has an attitude problem," Quinn tells you. "I've been through her counseling packet and she's been in some trouble for mouthing off to her NCOs."

"I know," you admit, "but honestly all of her NCOs suck."

"Yeah, I don't think Karofsky can handle her," Quinn sees the soldiers waiting for them at the entrance to the lawn and garden section of the store. "I might have to switch her into another squad."

"Don't do that," you shake her head, "Evans is good with her, they're really close. I think it would just make her hate you and everything worse."

"Yeah, but just how _close_ are they?" she lowers her voice, her eyes implying what she means.

The idea makes you frown, "No. No, they're not sleeping together."

"How do you know?" she quirks an eyebrow at you and you look to the soldiers.

SPC Lopez is leaning casually against the handle of a shopping cart, her boot resting on the undercarriage and she's watching you walk closer. She's so busy watching you walk closer that she misses whatever Evans is telling her and has to blink over to him, asking, "What are you even talking about?"

They're not sleeping together.

He doesn't get a chance to repeat himself before Quinn's giving them direction, "Alright, we're here for basic stuff, you two know the detail and what we need."

They talk about what they might need, how many of each, what's likely to break and what they might be able to make do with. It's obvious that Evans is more interested in the quest for new lawn maintenance equipment than she is. She settles for pushing the cart along and giving him an opinion every once in a while.

"Hey Evans," Quinn asks from a display of power tools, "what do you know about weed-whackers?"

You laugh because you didn't realize she was going all out on this adventure.

Evans is quick to go over and provide his opinion, and you mosey over to where he left his teammate near the hand shovels. She's eying the spades with a skeptical look, like she wouldn't know the first thing about which one she should pick or what to do with it when she gets it.

You walk closer, being sure to keep the shopping cart between you, "Can't decide?"

"There's just so many," she shrugs, her eyes skating from you to the display and back.

You can't help yourself, "Do you need Evans to tell you which one is best?"

Her lips part, because she can't believe you implied that she needed help picking out a hand shovel. You can feel your lips tugging into a smirk and your eyebrow quirk up.

After a moment she finds her nerve and waves to the display, offering it to you, "I'd much rather have your opinion, Sergeant."

You have to look at the spades then, because it's really hard to keep her eyes when she's smiling with them like that. Like she's in on a joke and she's not sure if you caught it too.

You caught it.

Loud and clear.

"I think I would go with these," you take them off the shelf and place them in the cart.

"How do you know how many she wants?" she asks you in reference to Quinn.

"She's gonna get three of everything," you explain. "One for each squad."

"So these aren't for the company? They're for the platoon?" she looks a little surprised by that, watching you as you walk by and move onto the next selection; rakes and push brooms.

You're trying to decide between metal and plastic rakes, you've never decided which one is more breakable. You remember plastic shovels sucking against the Pennsylvania winter. She pushes the cart forward, rolling into a spot behind you so she's about a foot away from your elbow. You're not looking at her but you can feel her watching you.

She should be looking at rakes, but she's looking at you.

"Quinn could care less about the other platoons," you focus on the tools enough for both of you. "She'll probably lock all of this stuff in the platoon office so only Third Platoon can use it."

She's quiet for a moment and you look over your shoulder at her, when your eyes meet she asks, "Her first name is Quinn?"

You blink, realizing your mistake. She has a way of getting you to forget your military bearing.

"Sergeant Fabray," you reaffirm, talking three metal rakes and setting them in the cart. She helps you adjust them so the handles angle the right way, "but yeah, her first name is Quinn."

You know her first name, _Santana_. You've seen it on various documents around the company. It was written on top of the profile she turned in when she hurt her ankle. She has horrible handwriting and you found it cute.

You've said it to yourself once or twice, just to hear how it sounds on your tongue.

Walking down the aisle, you don't see anything that really jumps out at you, so you start to move to the next, glancing over to make sure she's still following you. She is, and her eyes aren't on the lookout for potentially useful gardening tools. You can feel a warmth in your face and you take a deep breath to try and make it go away.

"She told me you deployed together," she prompts in a sentence that doesn't address you by your rank. You don't correct her because you've never been a stickler about that kind of thing. You would never admit it, but maybe you're getting used to letting her get away with more than everyone else.

"We did," you answer because it's the truth. Talking about that deployment makes you feel awkward. You don't really like talking about stuff like that. You laugh with just a touch of sarcasm, looking over your shoulder as you say, "It was our sweet sixteen."

Her face lets you know that she doesn't understand your joke, and you didn't expect her too.

"We spent sixteen months together in Afghanistan, and it sucked so we call it our sweet sixteen for fun."

"I thought your deployment in Afghanistan was eighteen months long," she's asking the question like it's just a small mistake in your story, but you think she's hoping that there's something to learn by your mismatching numbers.

There is, but you can't tell her that part, so you settle for, "We only spent sixteen of them together so..."

You hold up two different kinds of paint scrapers, you think they'll be a lot better against the moss on the walls than a broken mop head. She looks between them before picking the one with the blue handle. She seems to like the color blue. You take down two more of the same kind, throw them in the cart, and continue down the aisle.

"So... you two must be real close," she's fishing but tries to cover it up, "like, all that brothers in arms stuff."

You stop in the middle of the aisle, pretending to consider a wheelbarrow. Really, you know there's no way in hell Quinn would ever want a wheelbarrow. You just need enough time to think of something that will answer her question without answering her question.

Because you can't answer _that_ question.

That would just put the idea in her head... that you're available. But you're not available. You're _unavailable_ in so many ways that it's not even funny. You know all of this and yet, you still want her to know the truth. You want her to know that you're not involved with Quinn in the way she, so obviously, doesn't want you to be.

"We're probably just as close as you and Evans," you see something flicker behind her eyes, "we were close teammates. The Army has a way of letting you pick up brothers and sisters everywhere."

Sisters, Quinn is like a sister to you and you shouldn't be telling her that. Her reaction only confirms it, because she wasn't able to look away in time to hide the light that came into her eyes, or the way her lips are pursing to try and subdue a smile.

You move onto the next section, looking at a few hedge clippers that might come in hand for the bush Evans was hiding in earlier. That reminds you, "So what were you singing that made Karofsky separate you and Evans?"

You look over just in time to see the embarrassed look on her face. Quietly she mumbles, "Proud Mary."

With a impressively straight face you ask, "How does that one go again?"

She looks at you, trying to figure out if you're messing with her or not.

"Seriously, I don't know how it goes," you continue, and the look on her face is priceless. She wants to say you're a horrible person for not knowing that song, but she can't say it because you outrank her.

"You know," she tries again, "the rollin' on the river song?"

You pull your face into a genuinely confused expression, "Is it like an offensive song? Is that why Karofsky was mad?"

"No, it's not offensive, like at all. It goes like," she glances up to the ceiling, resigning herself to the awkwardness of singing a song without really singing it. She's saying the lyrics with only a hint of a melody, "Left a good job in the city, working for the man every night and day..."

She gives you a few more lines in that same clumsy way of saying song lyrics without looking like a singsong fool, and you cant keep the smile off your face. It's hilarious. Adorable. She hasn't looked down from the ceiling and her toe is tapping along to the beat in her head.

She's too cute.

"Proud Mary keep on burning, rollin'—"

"Rolling," you add the backup singer's echo and she looks down at you with a playful glare, realizing that you've been messing with her.

"Rolling," her eyes narrow a little, but she's determined to finish the verse. You don't make her do it by herself.

"Rolling," you throw your hands up, wiggling your fingers like jazz hands and she doesn't look amused.

"Rolling on the river," she finishes dryly. "You knew the song the whole time."

"No," you scoff around a grin, waving your hand at her dismissively, "you jogged my memory halfway through. Must have been your singing voice."

She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head to keep herself from saying anything. Saying something she's not allowed to say to someone that outranks her. You laugh at her, because well, you can. You can see a smile in her eyes, so you don't feel too bad about it.

"Hey," you send her a look that's a bit more serious. You're having too much fun and you need to get back to that professional place. "I need you to do me a favor."

She just waits for you to continues, pushing the cart after you.

"Flanagan got his Air Assault date," you grab that hedge clipper off the rack as you pass it, "I would really appreciate it if you helped me get him ready."

"That's awesome," she's smiling, excited for her friend, "of course I'll help out. I'll give him the packing list tonight so we can make sure he has everything."

"Thank you," you put the hedge clippers in the cart and think you're finished shopping. You have the essentials, and Quinn will have whatever isn't so... essential. "I haven't had a chance to tell him yet, he's out pulling medical coverage for First Platoon at the range."

"He's going to be pumped."

"Yeah, I hope so," you're excited for this opportunity, but you really hope he doesn't mess it up. "I'm really glad you decided to wear your Air Assault badge."

She drops her eyes to her hands, pushing the cart along with her forearms and picking at her nails, "I still don't get why..."

She doesn't understand why you told her she should be proud of herself but you refuse to show off in the same way.

"I wore my Air Assault badge at your graduation," you remind her, and she scratches her nose, you know it meant a lot to her, "and Sergeant Fabray has been wearing her badges again."

"Yeah, but only her CAB, not her Airborne wings," she looks up, hopeful for an explanation.

"She's proud of her CAB," you decide it wont hurt to let her know that. "I'm proudest of my medical badge, so I think I would wear that one if I had to choose."

"But you don't wear any of them."

"I don't," you take the front of the cart in you hands and you hold her eyes, "because I'm trying to fit in. You wearing your badge helps you out because it makes you like everyone else. Me _not_ wearing mine helps me in the same way."

Her eyebrows furrow and she's trying to figure it out. She's trying to figure out why you want to dim your shine, but she doesn't know about the way First Sergeant Sylvester constantly boasts about you to the senior sergeants like you're better than them, or the way they resent you for your experience in an infantry unit that's done way cooler stuff than they've ever done. No one in Headquarters Platoon has a triple stack. You don't want them resenting you any more than you want the MPs doing it. This company wants you to be just a medic, so you're going to be the best just-a-medic you can be.

"We're all playing the same game, Lopez," you push on the cart softly and she stops it with her foot, "but everyone has a different set of rules that they have to follow."

Her head moves in a small nod and you think she understands a little better.

You're not sure if it's by accident or on purpose but the cart is moving forward against your palms in a nearly unnoticeable amount of pressure. It's oddly exciting, the tension you're sharing on this metal contraption. In this small moment, connected, being able to feel the push and pull of each other. If it were possible for feelings to travel through shopping carts by osmosis you would be in trouble.

She shifts her foot on the undercarriage and you grip tighter to keep the cart still.

Doesn't electricity travel well through metal? Is that why your hands are tingling and the hair on the back of your neck is standing on end? She's watching you with that... spark in her eye and you can feel your ears burning, but you wont look away. You wont back down from her. It might not be as obvious and abrasive as hers can be sometimes, but you do have some pride.

You raise an eyebrow, as if to ask why she's staring, and she ducks her head, breaking eye contact first, and remembering why she can't be staring at you like that.

That's one of the rules you both have to play by.

Turning on your heel you continue down the aisle, ignoring the spiral of butterflies in your stomach and her eyes on you as you walk away. You sigh softly, knowing that walking away is one of the only things you can do.

* * *

"It's kind of fitting that Sergeant Fabray picked us to come get a bunch of gardening stuff," Evans says to his friend. They're loading everything up in his truck and you're sure he thinks that you and Quinn aren't listening from where you're organizing what will go into your jeep.

"Why," you can hear in her voice that she's rolling her eyes, "because you grew on up on a farm and illegal immigrants are a cornerstone in the landscaping industry?"

"That and we both like flannel, even if it's for completely different reasons."

You hear a dull thud and guess that she might have punched him somewhere, "I don't wear flannel, asshole, and you're no cowboy so let that that shit go."

Quinn sends you a curious look, wondering if you overheard what she did.

"I told you they weren't sleeping together," you tell her under your breath.

"Huh," she glances at the truck then back at you, "is she like, out?"

"I don't know, I just got the feeling, I don't even know for sure or anything," you get the feeling by the way she looks at you. The way you think she's crushing on you.

You can't tell Quinn that, though.

Quinn smirks, staring to turn towards the truck and you grab the front of her uniform top to pull her back to the cart, "You're not going to ask her, are you?"

"Why not?" Quinn shrugs, a smile coming to her face, "Don't Ask, Don't Tell isn't in affect anymore."

"You can't just ask soldiers stuff like that," you're overreacting, and you wish it wasn't so obvious. "She could file an EO complaint against you."

"Oh my goodness," Quinn brushes your hand off her jacket and rolls her eyes, "it's just a question. If she feels like I'm persecuting her by asking if she's really as gay as her _friend_ is making it seem, she's welcome to tell me she's not comfortable talking about it, and then I can tell Evans to knock it off so no one else makes that assumption."

"Just trust me," you say seriously, "she's not comfortable talking about it."

Her voice lowers and it's not angry or threatening, but it's very earnest, "Are we talking about her or you?"

You have to look away, feeling your throat tighten and your face warm.

"Britt—"

You shake your head and let out a hoarse, "I'll meet you at the jeep."

Throwing an arm full of rakes over your shoulder, you walk off.


	8. ATTP 3 Dash 39 Point 10

ATTP 3-39.10, Chapter 6: Military Police Traffic Operations.

* * *

"I'm still kinda iffy about it. I mean, Miss Princess Diaries as Catwoman? I just can't see it."

"I don't know, the trailer you showed me looked pretty good," you answer absentmindedly.

You're waiting in line with the rest of your squad in front of a sturdy room with a barred metal door and window. It's the armory and all the company's weapons are locked away safe and sound inside. You're about to draw you duty weapon so you can start your patrol. You're on night shift so the hours are crap. Oddly enough, it's your favorite shift because they're usually quiet and when they're not it's because the shits going down, and you like it when it does.

The night is starting off in the best possible way, the armor is taking his good old time and you're stuck listening to Evans rant about the new _Batman_ movie. He'll probably drag you out to see it with him. You'll pretend to not want to go and end up loving it as much as you liked the last one.

To contribute to the conversation, you throw out, "Anne Hathaway did a pretty alright job in that _Havoc_ movie. It sure wasn't a fairy tale."

"Yeah, I guess," he doesn't look convinced and you know his inner nerd is just nervous that it's not going to live up to his expectations. "Another thing, why do they have to do Catwoman? There are so many other characters that are so under appreciated, they didn't have to pick the biggest cliche."

You pick at your nails and give him a sarcastic, "I _know_, right?"

He shoves your shoulder playfully and you have to laugh.

"I don't know why you pretend like you're not into these movies too," he rolls his eyes, "you were all excited about the new _Avengers_ movie."

You lick your lips and shrug. You were excited about that movie for a completely different reason, namely that hot Black Widow chick played by Scarlett Johansson. She was literally the only reason you wanted to see it. You weren't disappointed either.

"I never said I wouldn't go see it with you," you admit, then roll your eyes when Evans gets that big goofy grin on his face.

"Will you two shut up?" SGT Karofsky turns around from his spot in line, "I don't want to hear about what you're planning for your next date, okay?"

You want to punch him, but instead, you keep a glare off your face and your mouth shut. He outranks you and he's been gunning for you lately. You're pretty sure it's because he thinks SFC Fabray hates him. You can't blame her, he's always saying something stupid in front of her.

"Is that true?"

Like right now.

The people in the room glance over to where your platoon sergeant is walking in, she's looking at your team with her reserved and unreadable eyes.

"Sergeant?" your team leader asks quietly. He's fidgety around her ever since she laid into him about insulting SSG Pierce.

"You said that they were planning a date," she stands in front of him and waves between you and Evans, "is that true?"

"They're going to see some movie," he shrugs and looks at you like this is your fault and you'd better not try to deny it.

"That makes it a date?" SFC Fabray asks, tilting her head and crossing her arms over her chest. Her voice is a backhanded version of conversational, like they were talking about the weather instead of soldier's dating habits.

"Um... no, I guess not, Sergeant," he amends his accusation in light of her obvious disapproval.

"So, you don't think they're dating?"

With each question you're getting more and more uncomfortable. You and Evans have started to inch slightly apart, putting more space between yourselves. There's nothing else that you can do to make it seem like you're not actually a couple. A few guys from the other team look back at you both and some of their faces are sympathetic, some of them aren't.

You were just making plans to go to the movies, it's not like you meant for this to blow up in his face.

"No, I don't think they're dating," SGT Karofsky mumbles honestly.

You're pretty sure he knows you're gay, you've been working together long enough that he's had to overhear enough of your conversations with Evans to get the hint. That and every once in a while he'll make a snide comment that can be taken as an insult, if you were gay.

Evans nudges you because it's your turn at the armor. You give your weapons card to the man behind the caged window and he goes back to the rack of pistols.

"So then, why would you suggest that they were going on a date?"

"I um, it was only a joke."

Ignoring the conversation going on about you as if you're not in the room, you fill out the sign-out ledger, writing your weapon's serial number down with the rack number and scribble your signature.

"Coming out," the armor is back at the window and slipping and nine millimeter Beretta through the small hole at the bottom. You take it and the two magazines of ammunition. Those are slipped into the pouches on duty belt before you move to the clearing barrel to load and holster your weapon.

"Why would you joke about something like that, and lead other soldiers to believe that these two are engaging in an inappropriate relationship?" SFC Fabray looks at Karofsky like she would really love to hear his answer.

He doesn't have one.

"Is that the assumption you want other people to have about your soldiers?"

"No, Sergeant."

"Hm," she looks over at you, then Evans who's getting his weapon issued to him. "Let's just clear the air here, you two aren't dating, are you?"

Evans stays silent, deferring to you as always. He has an awesome habit of saying the worst possible thing to questions like this.

He's used, _"ew_, _no,"_ once or twice and it makes you sound like there's something wrong with you, and everyone's first guess is some sort of STD.

The bashful way he says, _"we're just friends,"_ with his sweet country boy smile makes him sound like he's interested; which means you're stringing him along.

You decide to make it simple, "No, Sergeant, we're not."

"Well alright, there we go," SFC Fabray takes you at your word and you know that she's on your side. Much to Karofsky's annoyance. "No one's dating anyone. Can we get back to work now?"

All of you answer in tandem, "Yes, Sergeant."

"Good," she watches Karofsky walk out the door and turns back to you and Evans. "You two, come here."

You walk closer and stand before her, hoping she's still on your side.

"If you two are fooling around, you need to tell me," she looks between you and Evans a few times, "so that I can put one of you in another platoon and no one can get into any trouble for inappropriate relationships. I'm not saying you can't date, you just can't do it if you're going to be team mates."

You hate these questions and that people assume that you're sleeping with him just because you hang out all the time. Sometimes you don't mind it, because some guys take it as you're off limits because you're Evans' girl. Most of the time you hate it because some of the guys ask him about how you are in bed and you hate how it puts him on the spot.

"We're not fooling around," you tell her, glad that since you two were the last in line. The room is completely empty except for the armor in his cage. You don't think he can hear you.

She raises her eyebrows and gives you one last change to come clean, her eyes linger on you more than Evans, you have a weird feeling about it, "Not at all? No, friends with benefits? No drunken weekend nights? No, we're bored and have nothing better to do with ourselves?"

"No, Sergeant," Evans finds his voice. "Nothing like that would ever happen, I'm not her type."

Her attention shifts to you, and you hold her eyes. That is your least favorite blunder because it makes you sound like a lesbian. Which, while true, isn't something everyone needs to know about. There's a small smile playing on her lips and a lighthearted interest in her eyes. You get the feeling that she's debating about expounding on his choice of words.

Because you don't feel like she's being malicious, and because you have your own ideas about her, you say, "No, Sergeant, he's not."

She quirks an eyebrow, her smile growing a hair, "He's not your type, or... _he's_ not your type?"

She's asking you outright if you're gay. You open your mouth to respond but you're cut off.

"Sergeant Fabray, can I have a word with you?"

You all look over to the door where SSG Pierce is standing with clipboard and a pen. She's looking between you and SFC Fabray and you know she's heard the last question that was presented to you. You wonder if that's why she looks so... troubled. Her grip on her paperwork is tight, her shoulders are stiff, and her eyebrows are furrowed in a barely noticeable manner. She wont meet your eyes.

The Platoon Sergeant runs her hand through her hair, her smile gone, and waves you off, "You two have a good shift."

"Yes, Sergeant."

You move towards the door, SSG Pierce stands aside to let you through. It just might be your imagination, but you think she tenses even more as you pass. You're not sure what it means. Good thing you have an eight hour shift to dwell on it.

* * *

You don't actually get any time to think about it. Your shift has been hell; between the two domestic disturbances, three traffic violations, and the DUI you're taking into custody... you're going to be at the Provost Marshal's Office for hours finishing up the paperwork.

"Watch your head," you suggest as you guide the man into the back of your patrol vehicle, a large Chevy Tahoe with police lights flashing on top. He looks like he could care less about what happens to his head, his life is shit now. He'll probably get demoted and if he has a record of alcohol offenses, he might even get kicked out of the Army. As you shut the door behind him, you can't say that you feel bad.

Using the hood of your truck as a table, you finish up your paperwork, making sure that the results of the breathalyzer are recorded, and that all of the blocks are filled in correctly, but quickly. You need to get him out of here they can do a test for his blood alcohol content before it wears off.

A second pair of police lights start flashing and it makes you look up.

"Fuck," you roll your eyes. The worst part of your radios is everyone knows what you're up to and the patrol supervisors love to come and stick their noses in your business. SGT Karofsky parks on the other side of the road and gets out of his truck. The first thing you say to him is, "Sergeant, you shouldn't park on that side of the road, it's not safe."

Two cruisers on opposite sides of the road is a traffic hazard because it doesn't give civilian traffic much room to work with. It funnels them into your work space. Everyone knows that. That's something MPs are supposed to take seriously and there your NCO is, being a prick about it.

"I'll park where I want to, Lopez," he brushes you, and standard safety procedure, off. "What do you got?"

You explain everything with absolutely no enthusiasm and finish with, "I'm about to take him to draw blood."

"Why? You already have the breathalyzer," he looks at you like you're stupid. You hate that look. "That takes forever and it's so much paperwork."

"I don't know," you shrug, packing up your paperwork. You're tired, it's six in the morning, you've been at it for seven hours now, and he's been doing absolutely nothing all night. Another awesome thing about radios, they work both ways. "Maybe because it's good police work?"

"Excuse me?" his eyes narrow at you and you know this isn't going to end well.

You can't stop yourself, "I said, it's good police work. You know, gathering evidence to support your case. My case is that this asshole is drunk and he was driving. Getting his BAC on record is going to back that up, so I'm going to get it no matter how much paperwork it is."

"Are you calling me lazy?" he takes a step towards you and you forget your paperwork to square off against him. He towers over you by half a foot and about a hundred pounds. SFC Fabray is right, this guy is fat.

"No," you say slowly, "I'm not calling _you_ lazy, I'm saying that _I'm_ _not_ lazy because I obviously don't have a problem doing the work. I never called you lazy."

"That sure sounds like you're calling me a lazy prick and a bad cop," he crosses his arms and looms further over you. He's getting angry and flustered, his voice is getting louder with each word, "And how about you address me by my rank?"

"I never said any of that, you're putting words in my mouth, _Sergeant_," you know that was everything you were trying to imply, but you never actually said any of it. Not that it really matters.

"I outrank you!" he barks, "so I can put whatever I want in your mouth, Lopez."

"And _that_ sounds like sexual assault to me," you bite off and watch him flush five different shades of red. He hadn't meant for it to come out like that, you would let it slide or laugh about it with anyone else, but he's too proud to just admit that he's an idiot and apologize.

"What are you gonna do about it, run to Fabray?"

"I don't have the time," you take up your paperwork and turn away from him headed for the driver's door, "I have to get him in before he loses his buzz, so if you'll excuse me, Sergeant."

"This conversation isn't over, Lopez," he tells you as you get into your truck. "You'd better check that attitude of yours, or I got something for you that will make you shut up."

He was talking about something along the lines of pushups or corrective training, you know that. Something about tonight, though, the comment he made about dating Evans, the way he put you on blast like that, the weird look on SSG Pierce's face... something about tonight makes you stop caring about consequences.

So you say, "And what are you going to shut me up with, your dick?"

The look on his face is priceless, he opens his mouth to yell something, but you slam the car door closed and throw it into drive. You're going to be hearing about that one later.

As you pull away, leaving him in the middle of the road, red as a tomato, it's almost worth it when the drunk in the back seat leans close to the protective partisan and says, "That was like, so badass."

* * *

Glancing at your watch, you find that it's coming up on six in the morning. You wouldn't normally be wake at this hour on a Sunday, but you said something really stupid to SGT Karofsky and now you're pulling a traffic detail at one of the most unused roads on Fort Campbell. It's six in the morning and you haven't seen a car in since he left your ass out here at four. Your only company is a single orange traffic cone and a glowing yellow direction baton.

Just in case.

You walk in a tight, frustrated, circle around your cone—the center of your operation. From your point in the intersection, you can see down all four legs of the crossroad. You stand brazen in the middle, ready to direct traffic safely through the linear danger zone.

You kick a rock and sigh.

At least it smells pretty out here. It's not too hot out because it rained last night and the road is shaded by the forest you're surrounded by. It's kind of calming, in a weird outdoorsy kind of way. Your eyes skate around the woods and it was creepier around four, when it was still dark and the shadows made you feel like someone was watching you.

Maybe one of the psychos from the movies you watch, sitting behind a bush with a rusty knife, waiting to pounce.

"Fuck off with this shit," you mumble to yourself, completing what might have been your thousandth circle around the cone. Your feet hurt and you want to go home.

The point of dragging you out to this godforsaken intersection was so that you would have no escape. It's a hell of a drive out here; lost somewhere between Fort Campbell, the woods, and a pocket of subdivisions lining the edge of town. He left you out here all by your lonesome and told you he would pick you at seven.

A three hour shift at an abandoned intersection.

You won't let it bug you. If Karofsky gets to you then he's won. If you let it bug you then it'll fester and the next time you cop an attitude it's just going to be worse. You have to let it go or else you'll end up getting another lecture from SFC Fabray about professionalism. That was a hard one.

You take moment to look into the sky, wondering about a lot of things, if someone's looking down at you and laughing. You almost kick your cone, but it doesn't deserve your temper, it's been a good cone. Tapping your traffic baton on your shoulder and hooking your thumb into your pistol belt, you try to think about something else.

A song trickles into your head, a light piano and slow swing beat. You can almost hear the muted trumpet.

_"Heaven, please send to all mankind,"_ your eyes skate around the sky, watching the clouds. The sun is lighting them gold in the dawn, _"understanding and peace of mind."_

_Please Send Me Someone to Love_ was originally recorded by Percy Mayfield, but you absolutely adore the cover by Peggy Lee. Her voice reminds you of Rizzo from _Grease_ and you've always been partial to female singers.

_"And if it's not asking too much,"_ you say quietly, not quiet singing yet, _"please send me someone to love."_

Singing to yourself has always been a fallback to keep yourself sane. Evans caught you once and things started turning into more duets than solos. You don't mind at all, he's a goof and it's nice to have fun with someone. He's introduced you to some great old school country singers and now you have a bigger respect for the genre, even if it's hard for you to admit.

You fall into a real singing voice, low but with the confidence of being completely alone, _"Show the world how to get along. Peace will enter when hate is gone. And if it's not asking too much, please send me someone to love."_

To admit that you're thinking about her… would be really silly, but you are. You're thinking about how it'll take an act of God to ever let things work out between you. Something about this feels like a prayer and you're singing louder and with more fervor than you normally afford your just for fun songs. This is supposed to be a song to try to look for hope, like there's a chance, but you're singing it like you're already heartbroken about an opportunity that you never had in the first place.

_"I lie awake, and ponder world troubles,"_ a lopsided smile comes to your face after that line, because you don't—at all, _"and the answer is always the same, that unless man puts an end… to this terrible sin, hate will put the world in a flame, what a shame._

_"Just because I'm, in misery,"_ your baton makes a large sweeping gesture around the intersection as you spin on your toes, giddy with song. It's fitting how this traffic detail is a quaint form of misery compared to seeing her every day at work and realizing that it'll never work out, _"I don't beg for your sympathy._

_"But if it's not asking too much,"_ your actually going all out now, because you haven't been able to really sing like you mean it in a while, when you're not being drowned out by your car stereo, the shower, or hoping Karofsky doesn't hear you, _"please, send me someone to love."_

The air is crisp around you, it feels good in your lungs. The broken pavement unwavering under your boots, it's gives you enough comfort to let loose. You close your eye and hum along to the instrumental break, baton tapping against your shoulder, waving a sassy finger in the air to the beat.

You spin the baton in your hand so that you're using the handle as microphone.

_"Yes, I lie awake nights, and ponder world troubles,  
and the answer is always the same,  
that unless man puts an end… to this terrible sin,  
hate will put the world in a flame, what a shame._

_"Just because I'm, in misery,"_ your voice, low and raspy, almost breaks; she's a slow and sweet torture,_"I don't beg for your sympathy, and if it's not asking too much, please send me someone to love."_

Your voice loses its drive, the fierce passion, and is more defeated when you finish the last line, because you know it's never going to happen, your prayers will never be answered, but you have to ask, _"Please, send me someone to love."_

If only singing about it will made your situation easier to handle.

Opening you eyes, you heave out a sigh, feeling better and worse at the same time. You're hopeless, pathetic, completely—

Something moves behind you and your entire body jolts, spinning on your heel you're ready to be jumped by some crazy psycho that lives in the woods wearing a mask and with a hook for a hand.

What you find is even scarier than that.

Your breath catches in your throat and your lips part in the most dumbfounded expression that's ever graced your features. You grip your baton tighter and bite the inside of your cheek to try to make sure you're not dreaming. The pavement under your feet is still every bit as solid as it was, but it isn't nearly as comforting—because if you're not dreaming, that would mean Staff Sergeant Pierce is standing on the side of the road, just a few feet away, and watching you with those unreadable blue eyes.

"What are you doing here?" you ask tactlessly, heaving a gulp of air back into your chest, replacing the breath that she had stolen.

How long had she been standing there? How much did she see? What did she hear?

"I was..." she blinks a few times, refocusing, and looks back that the woods behind her like she forgot what she was doing, "I was on a run. I'm running."

She doesn't move any closer, though, her foot shifts like she wants to.

You take a quick—discreet—glance at her outfit, the Nike shorts and top, there's an iPod strapped to her bicep, but her earphones are hanging out of her collar and bouncing steadily to the rise and fall of her chest. She was running. The damp patches in her shirt and the way her forehead is glistening newly risen sunlight tell you that she's been at it for a while. The fresh daylight catches her hair and makes it impossibly more beautiful; a deep, rich golden blonde that you could drown in.

"We're in the middle of nowhere," you glance around to assure yourself that, you are in fact, still at a godforsaken intersection and that you haven't entered the Twilight Zone.

"I live on the other side of the woods," she explains. "There's running trails through the whole thing. What are you doing out here?"

"Directing traffic."

She looks at you, then up and down the road, then back at you with look that makes you blush, "Right… you wanna put that away?"

She drops her eyes the baton in your hand that you're pointing at her like a sword. Hastily, you drop it, embarrassed by how badly she's scared you and how flustered you are. "Sorry, but you scared the shit out of me."

"Yeah," she glances at her toes, "I guess, I caught you of guard."

That is an understatement. This is the first time you've talked to her since that time in the armory with SFC Fabray, you can't seen any of the hesitation in her eyes anymore. She doesn't have that tense posture and she's actually making eye contact. That has to be a good sign, right?

"How… how long…" you're almost nervous to find out so you can't quiet finish.

"I didn't mean to sneak up on you," she doesn't answer your question, "my trail starts up again on the other side of the road."

She shuffles her feet again, still not stepping onto the road.

"It's pretty early for a run," you glance at your watch, just past six.

"It's cooler in the morning," she wipes the back of her hand against her forehead like she just remembered that she was sweating, "and... I have to make it back in time for church."

You're surprised by that comment and it must show on your face because she asks, "What's wrong with church?"

"Nothing," you shake your head, earnestly, "I just—my family's Catholic and I haven't been to church since I left home. It's kind of a tradition to stop going to mass once no one's making you."

The look that flashes over her face is a mixture of interest and humor, "Quinn—I mean, Sergeant Fabray, is making me go."

Your lips quirk into a smile when her eyes move in the barest of eye rolls. You're not sure what to say to that so you wait for her to make the next move.

Her next move is forward, stepping onto the road for the first time and looking up and down the streets, "Where's your patrol vehicle?"

"I was dropped off," you mumble, ashamed of your banishment.

"You're really out here by yourself?" she's not asking you for an answer, she's asking because she can't believe it. "They left you out here by yourself?"

"I have a radio, Sergeant," you're getting the feeling that she's getting upset at your situation, "and a lightsaber…" when she looks at you with a bemused expression, you wave your light baton awkwardly, "just in case."

She stares at you and you're not sure if she's more surprised by the context of your joke or that you're defending the people that abandoned you here. You could care less about that. While it makes your cheeks warm, you don't want her worrying about you. You'd rather see her smiling than frowning, even if it's on your behalf.

"That is what you planned on attacking me with when you first heard me come up," she nods a little, eyeing your baton, "it looks _very_ threatening."

The slip of a playful sarcasm makes you smile—maybe a little wider than you should.

"Did you feel threatened?" she asks you plainly, "when you realized someone was behind you?"

You shrug because you don't want to admit it, but after standing by yourself in the dark for two hours, anyone would freak out when they heard something behind them.

"If you were really scared you should have went for your nine-mil and not your baton."

You blink at the suggestion. She's not suggesting that you should have shot her, but in a way, it makes sense. She's moving closer to you, and you stand stock still in the middle of the road. When she's in front of you, the medic gestures to the baton in your hand, and you hand it over without question.

She gives it a small, amused, inspection like she's trying to figure out if it's really that threatening at all, "For the most part, you should probably keep your dominant hand free of silly things like this."

The baton is handed back to you, placed in a way so you can grab it with your right hand. You take a hold of it, but she doesn't release her end.

"That way you can grab your weapon really quick," she glances at the pistol on your hip. "It's a good habit when you're on patrol... or alone in the middle of nowhere."

You watch her eyes follow the line of your duty belt and for a second you think she's going to critique the placement of your ammo pouches, handcuff pocket, or collapsible nightstick. Instead she just glances back up to your eyes. If you hadn't already been working so hard to appear casual, you might have lost it then and there. Maybe it's just a trick of the light, but her eyes look... darker, her pupils just a little larger.

You're so glad that it's polite to look into someone's eyes when they're talking to you, because her eyes are beautiful and watching them sparkle in the morning sun is making this punishment _so_ worth it.

Is it just you, or is she turning the baton in her hand-ever so slightly? Your hand moves with it, following her lead, not wanting to break the connection. Her breathing is still a little heavy from her run, and you can hear it in the air between you. She's still turning the baton and you're hand, which was on top, is now closer to being under it now. Faintly, you realize that holding something that she's holding, touching something she's touching; that's the closest you'll ever get to holding or touching her.

"Can I say something?" she's whispering for some reason and you're terrified that she's about to call you out on your leering.

She glances to the baton between you and back, you can tell she's trying to decide if she wants to say what's on her mind or not.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"This," the medic taps her index finger against the baton and you feel the vibration run up your arm and into your spine, "is so beneath you, Lopez."

She releases the baton and you've never felt so distant from her. You hear it in her voice, she's disappointed in you. It chills you to the core. You look away, because you're no longer worthy to look her in the eye.

"Was telling Sergeant Karofsky that he's an idiot worth being put on some kind of," she waves gently to the intersection around you, "glorified timeout from hell?"

You thought it was about a minute ago... not so much anymore. You shake your head and hope she doesn't take offense by your silence.

Again, she's not yelling. She so rarely ever yells. She just tells you how she sees it and makes you want to cut your own heart out and offer it to her as a sacrifice for her forgiveness.

"Is this the kind of soldier you are?"

You close your eyes, a cowardly flinch to hide form reality.

"Because I thought you were the kind of soldier that kicks ass at Air Assault School and wins the company boards."

You thought you were that soldier too.

There's a shuffle and you have to open your eyes because if she's walking away from you, your masochistic enough to need to watch it happen.

She isn't walking away, she's watching her own foot drag against the pavement. The medic looks embarrassed with herself, like she shouldn't have said that and she's guilty that she made you feel bad. It's pretty obvious that you feel about an inch tall right now.

"I'm sorry," she shakes her head like she's angry at herself, "but it's really hard to see someone with so much potential throw themselves off a cliff."

You know what she means. You were on the way up by graduating Air Assault School and wining the board, now you're just girl with an attitude... again. It's really easy for people to forget all the great stuff you've done. All it takes is one slip and you're back on the bottom of the hill.

Because you don't know what to say, you watch her neon orange shoe move back and forth. You notice that her shins and calves are speckled with dirt from the run. It rained last night, you wonder if her trails are filled with mud puddles. You can see her smiling as she runs, dodging them easily with those... graceful legs.

"Fabray likes you," she says quietly, "she wants to see you do well, but she can't help you out when you make it so easy for Karofsky to screw you over."

"But he was in the wrong," you say as a pathetic attempt to justify what you said.

"If I stand here and say that two plus two, equals six," she puts her hands on her hips, "what are you going to say to me?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"NCOs are wrong all the time, Lopez, but it's not your place to tell them that, and it sucks," she looks up to the sky, an exasperated smile coming to her face. "Man, it really sucks sometimes, and we've _all_ been there, so you should trust me when I tell you that pointing it out isn't going to get you ahead."

You watch your boots, gripping the baton behind your back with both hands in an odd version of parade rest, because if she's going to be scolding you, you're going to let her do it right.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

You look up from under the bill of your patrol cap and meet her eyes, "Yes, Sergeant."

She studies you, maybe trying to figure out if you're being sincere or not, eventually she drops her eyes and says, "Sergeant Fabray might be kinda harder on you for the next few days. Be ready for it, and don't think of it as a bad thing. She's always harder on the people that she think are worth the time."

You hope she shares the same philosophy and that she only told you to get your crap together because she wants to see you succeed.

A silence falls over you as she lets you think about what she's told you. You stew in her disappointment until something catches your attention. It's her headphones, still dangling from her shirt collar about two feet away from you. They are most definitely playing that teen pop song, _Call Me Maybe_ by Carly Rae Jepsen.

She might have followed your curious eyes, or noticed the music for herself. At any rate, she figures out that you're listening to her music and her hand clasps around her ear buds like they've betrayed her. You glance up from them to see her looking more embarrassed than you've ever seen her, a rosy flush rising on her cheeks, and her ears pinking. She looks… adorable.

"It's a cute song," she mumbles as if you needed an explanation, her eyes daring you to say anything against it. "Don't make fun of me."

"I wasn't going to," you're trying really hard to keep from smiling. You don't know why she's so embarrassed, but you love seeing it, her NCO-mode has broken and she's standing in front of you with a blush that's cuter than the song. "It's probably really good music for running."

"It is," she reaches over to lower the volume of her iPod so she can take her hand off her ear buds. "I know you're some kind of... music buff, or whatever."

"I listen to modern stuff too."

"That song you were singing didn't sound all that modern," she says quietly, her eyes glancing over you like she's reevaluating everything she's ever known about you. "Like, it was a pretty song, but nothing on the radio."

You tense, because you were trying to forget that her overhearing you was a possibility, "No, it's not on the radio."

"What was the name of it?"

You hoped she wouldn't ask, but since she did, you drop your eyes to her shoes and say, "_Please Send Me Someone to Love_; it was originally done by Percy Mayfield... I don't know, I found a cover by Peggy Lee on Pandora last week and it's been in my head ever since."

You're spewing out useless information and couldn't care less. You'd rather keep her focus on that instead of why you might have been pleading with a higher power for someone to love you.

"I've never heard of either of them," she admits and you shrug, "but I'm not a singer, all I need is a good beat."

"I'm not a singer," you fiddle with the baton in your hands, "I just sing, sometimes, when I'm alone."

"You sing... very well, when you're alone," she's watching your hands on the baton.

"Or, when I think I'm alone."

She glances up to your eyes and you can see her ears flush again. Then she's coughing into her fist and checking her wrist—she's not wearing a watch.

"It's six-fourty," you supply evenly, because you're actually wearing a watch and not just looking for an excuse to leave. It kind of breaks your heart that you've scared her off. You're such an idiot, why would you call her out like that?

"Thanks," she bites her lip, trying to find the right words to tell you that she needs to leave, abandon you on the street. "When are they coming to pick you up?"

"At seven, Sergeant."

She nods, "Can you do me a favor and be careful?"

The medic asks you to be careful like you don't have a weapon on your belt and she's not about to go running through the same woods that might hold potential threats.

Despite that you say, "I will."

In a small way you're flattered that she cares.

"I um..." she hesitates, taking a small breath before she says, "you have a really pretty voice, Lopez."

You duck your head to—try to—hide your flattered smile, pulling the bill of your patrol cap down low and mumble, "Thanks... Sergeant."

You expected her to leave after that, so you look up slowly, and she's just watching you stand there and blush, until you meet her eyes and she realizes that she's staring.

"Right, well... I have to," she throws her thumb over her shoulder.

You nod, "Right."

She takes one last look at you and you try to keep from looking like a dejected little puppy that's being left tied to the fence. With a bit of force in her step, she turns away from you and starts jogging back the way she came. You feel bad because it looks like you wasted enough of her time to keep her from finishing her workout. Too quickly, she's lost in the woodline and you're left in the middle of the road with nothing but a cone and a lightsaber for company.


	9. AR 608 Dash 1

AR 608-1, Appendix J: Army Family Readiness Group Operations.

* * *

SSG Pierce wasn't lying; Fabray has been on your ass ever since the thing with Karofsky. Sometimes she's giving you stupid things to do around the company, sometimes she keeps you chained to her side.

You're not sure if she means to keep an eye on you or if she really is this crazy about winning the Solider of the Quarter board. Either way, SFC Fabray always has something for you to do. If you're not on the road you're in the platoon office, in what she has deemed your chair, sitting against the wall next to her desk.

It's kind of cool because you get to know things before any of the other soldiers since you're in with the NCOs when they're making decisions and setting up timelines. It's kind of not cool because a few of the people in your platoon have been realizing that you're getting out of details and they're jealous. SFC Fabray caught someone making a snide comment to you the other day and promptly told him that if he wanted to win the Soldier of the Month board, maybe he would be getting out of stupid details too.

"Lopez, what are the five types of military discharges?"

You take a breath to give yourself a moment to think, "Sergeant, the five types of military discharges are honorable, general, dishonorable, other than honorable, and bad conduct."

"That's wrong," she doesn't look up from the paperwork she's filling out on her desk, "do pushups."

You falter because, "Sergeant, that's not wrong, those are the five types of discharges."

Her eyes slide to yours but her head doesn't move, you find it kind of creepy, "Lopez, if I tell you something is incorrect, then what is it?"

"Incorrect, Sergeant?"

"That's correct," she looks back to her paperwork, "now do pushups."

You bite back a sigh and drop to the ground, knocking out pushups as you realize that she's just trying to reiterate what SSG Pierce told you. Even when an NCO is wrong, they're right.

"But you were right about the discharges, so you can get up."

You hop to your feet and take your a seat, waiting for the next question.

"What's going to happen if you don't start getting along with Sergeant Karofsky?"

That wasn't the question you were expecting and the answer can't be found in the Army Study Guide. You don't need a book to tell you, "I'm going to get an Article 15, Sergeant."

"For what?"

You've gotten this lecture before, "Disrespecting a Non-Commissioned Officer."

"Right," she nods and puts her pen down, sitting back in her chair to really look at you and make sure you know she's being serious about this, "but before we even get to the point where I'm charging you with a disciplinary offense, I'm gonna have to move you out of his team. Do you want that to happen? I know you and Evans have been battle buddies since you swore in."

"I'd prefer it if you moved Karofsky out of the team," you hazard to say.

She snorts, rolling her eyes, "I know you would, but Karofsky is a team leader and if he can't handle a soldier, the protocol isn't to move the NCO, it's to move the soldier."

The way she said that last bit, that Karofsky can't handle you, it makes you think that butting heads with him is more his fault than yours. It's not like you go out of your way to disrespect every NCO you come across, usually your sass is provoked by a big stupid brick-headed NCO.

"I... know that I'm not supposed to say stuff like this," you hesitate and she watches you with a thinly veiled curiosity, "but he's really just sucks at being a leader."

She considers your words, "How so?"

You have the idea that this is some kind of test, like she wants to know what you're looking for in a leader because she wants to know what kind of leader you want to be one day.

"He likes telling us, Evans and I, what to do a lot, which is his job—I get that, but he never wants to teach us how to do it, or he expects us to just know how he wants it done," you shrug. "He thinks good leadership is having an obnoxiously loud voice and giving orders all the time. Evans and I aren't idiots. If you give us a task, we're gonna get it done. Just don't throw a fit about it when we didn't do it how you would have done it when you didn't bother to explain shit to us in the first place."

"Sergeant Karofsky..." she glances to the ceiling, then to the closed door of her office, "is a relatively new NCO. I think he pinned Sergeant like what, five months ago?"

You nod, you were at the ceremony and to this day you don't know how he was promoted.

"If I was his platoon sergeant five months ago, that wouldn't have happened."

Honestly, you're stunned that she would tell you that.

"That doesn't leave this office," she warns and you nod again. When she has your consent, she continues, "he doesn't have enough confidence in his own authority as an NCO, so he overcompensates by being the brash asshole, and that just triggers your attitude."

Her tone implies that she has you all figured out, and maybe she does.

"You don't mind being yelled at, Lopez," she taps her pen on her desk, "you take direction well, and you do get the job done... but only if you're taking those orders or getting yelled at by someone you respect. I've seen you with other NCOs around the company, not all of them get your cold shoulder like Sergeant Karofsky does."

You wonder if she's talking about SSG Pierce.

"Sergeant," you feel like you need to explain, "I guess I don't like people getting in my face when they don't know what they're talking about."

She lets out a breath of laughter, "I've been there."

This... is odd. She's talking to you with an willingness to understand that few NCOs have afforded you. She wants to know, or has already figured out, what's making you act out. She understands your frustrations with Karofsky. It's not that you're unwilling to be lead; you just want someone who's going to lead you in the right direction.

"So, if you could pick," she looks up to you again, "any NCO in our platoon, for you and Evans. Who would it be?"

You don't really have to think about it, "Anderson. I'd want to work with Sergeant Anderson."

She quirks an eyebrow, "Is there any particular reason for that?"

"He's been deployed before, where Karofsky hasn't," you start ticking things off on your fingers, "he used to be K9, that's kinda cool, and he seems to know what he's talking about."

"Hm," she likes giving you these little noises of consideration instead of an actual answer, "and you know that what I'm trying to say about how and NCO is always right?"

"I need to take the order and move on, Sergeant?"

"It's a difficult line," she rubs her eyebrow, "and I want you to understand this because you're smart, Lopez. You're smart enough to learn how to play the game."

You wait for her to continue and try to keep from being too pleased at her compliment.

"You have to pick your battles, learn when to keep your head down and do the 'yes, sergeant' thing, and when to say something," she looks at you with a hard eye. "You shouldn't be afraid to say something when an NCO is in the wrong—like, _way _in the wrong—but you have to know how to go about it. You have keep your head and maintain your military bearing. If you get upset and start speaking out of anger, no matter what you're trying to say, it's going to be interpreted as disrespect because you're a soldier that lost their cool."

You chew on your lips and nod.

"In any argument against an NCO you're already at a disadvantage, you can't let your temper get the best of you and lose any chance of getting anyone to take you seriously," she taps her fingers against her desk. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

* * *

Not all of your study sessions are alone.

SFC Fabray sits you down close to the end of day, your chair in front of her desk this time, and she runs you through the entire board procedure, making sure you have it down flawlessly.

You've been answering her questions for the last ten minutes when the she asks you, "What is tact?"

"Something you need to work on."

You both glance up to the woman entering the room. SSG Pierce smiles at you as she closes the door behind her. Your eyes find your knees, it's been a while since she found you out in the middle of nowhere but you're still embarrassed by the whole thing.

"Hey," SFC Fabray greets her, looking at her watch, "are you ready to take off?"

"Nah," she takes a seat on her friends desk, shifting through the large stack of mail in her hands, "I'd rather stay and study with you guys, if it's alright?"

You aren't used to your opinion mattering but your platoon sergeant looks at you like you're the one in charge here. You shrug, glad for the opportunity to be in the same room as the medic.

"Alright," she looks back down to the large book of questions she's been reading from, "what regulation covers the Code of Conduct."

You falter because you have no idea, the numbers all get mixed up in your head sometimes. SSG Pierce looks at you, giving you the chance to answer before she says, "AR 350-30."

"How many articles are in the Code of Conduct?"

Again she waits for you to see if you know the answer. You do, so you answer, "Six, Sergeant."

"Changing topics," SFC Fabray flips a few pages, "when was the Medal of Honor established?"

"Eighteen sixty-two, Sergeant," you answer and SSG Pierce nods in agreement.

"What DA form is used to recommend or request and award?"

"DA form…" you thought you knew it, but it's escaping you at the moment. There are so many numbers, "636?"

"638," SSG Pierce corrects you, setting her mail on the desk and slipping off the desk. She pulls a seat away from the wall and sets it next to yours, falling in casually and crossing her legs.

"Is that how you're going to sit in the board?" SFC Fabray quirks an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah, isn't this how you do it?" she glances at you with a confused expression that is so convincing, if she hadn't taught you the correct way to sit in a board, you would think that she was being serious.

You bite back a laugh and your platoon sergeant rolls her eyes. Letting SSG Pierce sit however she wants, SFC Fabray continues with the questions. For the most part, SSG Pierce waits until you answer, or at least try, until she answers for you or corrects your answer. Sometimes SFC Fabray gives you both an insanely hard question that, by the way she looks for SSG Pierce for the answer, she doesn't expect you to know.

SSG Pierce always has it.

"What is a low density MOS?"

You have no idea. You turn to SSG Pierce, who just points to herself.

"A medic?"

"A medic is an example of a low density MOS, yes," SFC Fabray says slowly, "but what's the book answer?"

"A low density MOS is a Military Occupation Specialty within an organization or unit that is required for unit function," SSG Pierce explains, "but applies to a very small amount of soldiers."

"So…" you try to weed through the Army crap to get to the simple answer, "pretty much headquarters platoon? Like there are only two people with the job as a medic, and the company needs them to function?"

"Heck yes, you need us," SSG Pierce grins, pumping her fist and saying, "Yo, we're headquarters, we got the supply importers, the commo reporters."

She's rapping. The blonde in the chair next to you is rapping.

"We might be low density, be we got the intensity, to rock to company, and be all we can be, which is really," she reaches over and swats your arm, "just better than you," she brushes her shoulder in a cavalier pimping kind of way, "'cause we're HQ."

You shut your mouth; somewhere during that little show it had fallen open. When you get your bearings, you can't help but smile, "Okay, I'm sorry, Sergeant—all due respect—but what was that?"

She looks at you with an amused expression, delighted with the smile on your face, "I was Jay-Z in a past life."

"Pierce, Jay-Z is still alive," SFC Fabray rolls her eyes, but you can see the hint of a smile on her face. She's trying to be serious because you're here and she's failing.

SSG Pierce looks at her friend with a dubious expression, "After that last album? I thought he would have killed himself by now."

Sucking you bottom lip into your mouth to keep from laughing, or smiling too crazy. You look to SFC Fabray for guidance; she shakes her head, exasperated and almost embarrassed, "She does this all the time."

You can't believe it so you have to ask, "You randomly start to rap, all the time?"

"I can beat box too," she shrugs casually. "It's how I win the boards. I rap the NCO Creed. First Sergeant loves it."

When you laugh she catches your eye, and somehow, you feel like she's been trying to get you to laugh the entire time. It's totally working.

"You're probably not into that kind of music," she asks, dropping her eyes for a moment of shyness.

"Not really, no," you shake your head. That doesn't mean you're not willing to give it a try, if it means you'll have something in common with her.

"You can't even call that crap music," SFC Fabray rolls her eyes and you are pulled out of your semi-private conversation with the medic to focus on being a professional.

"That's not fair," SSG Pierce frowns, "some of it is really good."

"Most of it," SFC Fabray drones, "is all about bitches and hoes, and tapping that ass."

You cough into your fist to poorly hide your laughter. You never thought you'd hear SFC Fabray say anything like that. Or even then, you'd never thought that you'd hear SSG Pierce start rapping in the middle of a board study session.

Even SSG Pierce has to crack a smile at that, however grudgingly, "Whatever, just give me another question."

* * *

When you show up to compete at the Soldier of the Quarter board, both SSG Pierce and SFC Fabray are already in the waiting room. You didn't expect your platoon sergeant to be in her dress uniform too, but there she is, and looking mighty sharp. If you didn't know the difference in their rank you would say, decoratively, they were evenly matched. You're walking up and studying her ribbons at the same time; there's one in particular that's standing out to you

It's a small rectangle of purple with white trim, seemingly unimportant in the rack of campaign ribbons and awards. It's purple. You know that the only people who wear that ribbon have been injured in combat. You want to know how it happened. Where was she when it happened? How bad was it? You want to know all of these things but it's not your place to ask. Besides, it's against an unwritten rule to ask. Some people are very particular when it comes to retelling the stories of their deployments. Some people will boast and brag and exaggerated everything, while some people would rather pretend it never happened in the first place.

You can't see SFC Fabray as the type of person willing to share.

"Good morning, Sergeants," you greet them and hope they can't see how nervous you are.

"Good morning, Lopez," SSG Pierce sends you a small smile and your stomach flutters with a different kind of butterfly. "You ready for this?"

"I'm going to kill this thing," you fake some confidence and pull small string off of your jacket sleeve. "I have my shank ready and everything."

She laughs at that, and your lips tug up at the sound. By her curious glance, SFC Fabray doesn't understand the joke, but she's all about the confidence.

"That's exactly what I want to hear," she smirks and starts moving behind you. You turn to keep her in your line of sight, but she puts her hand on your shoulder and holds you still so she can circle you. SSG Pierce is still in front of you and smiling, finding your discomfort funny.

"Why are you wearing your dress uniform, Sergeant?" you try not to squirm when fingers pinch small traces of lint off your black jacket.

"I'm sponsoring you," she says from behind you. She's found a lint roller and is running it down your shoulders.

"I thought that was Sergeant Karofsky's job?" you wonder out loud.

"Here's the thing," she makes it around to your front and is careful to not hit your ribbons with the lint roller. Her eyes glance over your newly added Air Assault badge, "this is me being selfish."

SSG Pierce meets your eyes over her friend's shoulder and sends you a wry look.

"Because I helped you study, I set up the mock-boards for you, I coached you through this," she steps back and examines her work. When her eyes flicker up to yours they're satisfied and confident, "and when you win, I'm going to take all the credit."

Your success is her success. It's exciting. You like that she has enough confidence in you to put her name on the line for you. You don't get the feeling that her share of the glory is all she's after, either. The hours she spent quizzing you, prepping you, building up your confidence in your ability to honestly kill this board; you know she wasn't only thinking about herself or making third platoon look good. She's wants you to look good because she thinks you're a good soldier and you deserve it.

"So you've been using me this whole time," you can't help up joke, trying to keep your nerves at bay.

"Obviously," she laughs, and sends her friend a look. "Actually, I almost wish I was competing. You know, for old time's sake, Pierce."

SSG Pierce rolls her eyes, "For old time's embarrassment, you mean. You've never beaten me."

"I've come close," SFC Fabray argues. "Sylvester always said that it was close."

"I think she only says that to make you feel better," SSG Pierce gives your platoon sergeant a sympathetic frown that quickly turns into a grin. A playfully confident smile that looks great on her and distinguishes the small trace of nerves she held in her eyes a moment before.

You realize what SFC Fabray is doing; she's reminding SSG Pierce that she's great at these things, that she has this in the bag. They are very good friends, you can see that.

The rest of the competitors and their sponsors show up within the next few minutes. After Evans pops his head in to wish you luck, you expect another comment from SFC Fabray about if you are really dating or not. Surprisingly, she doesn't say anything.

When you're up next, the nerves are really starting to gather in the pit of your stomach.

"How do I look, Pierce?" SFC Fabray asks, looking down at herself.

"You look fine."

You can't help but notice that she's not even looking at the woman asking the question. Her eyes looking downward, seemingly at her nails... yet, there's something odd about the focus in her stare. She's not looking at her hand, she's looking at your legs. You can tell because when you take a small step to your left, in what might have been a nervous twitch in your low pumps, her eyes follow your calves.

She's looking at your legs and that's more nerve-wracking than the room full of senior NCOs that are about to condemn judgment on you.

"Pierce," SFC Fabray draws her attention away from your legs, she looks away subtly, and the only thing giving her away is the soft flush in the shell of her ears.

"Quinn, I put your uniform together for you. It's perfect."

SFC Fabray puts her hands on her hips, "A girl likes to hear that she's pretty every once in a while."

SSG Pierce smiles at that, but her eyes dart around the room quickly, before walking closer to her friend and takes and exaggerated look at her uniform.

"Sergeant Fabray, I have to say," she places a delicate finger to the platoon sergeant's decoration rack, right on top of her purple ribbon, "you look dashing."

You watch your platoon sergeant smile and slap the medic's hand away, "Now you're just being facetious. Come on Lopez, we gotta go wait for them to call you in."

"Yes, Sergeant," you nod and step forward to follow.

"I'd wish you luck," SSG Pierce catches your eye, "but I don't think it's going to help. You're gonna take this, hands down."

"Likewise, Sergeant," you smile, wishing she knew how much you meant it.

* * *

"I don't even know why you all are hanging around," SFC Fabay eyes everyone in the room who isn't you or SSG Pierce, "because the winners are standing right here and none of you ever had a chance."

You thought waiting to go _into_ the board was tense. Now that you're waiting for the results, your stomach is in knots. Your platoon sergeant's boasting isn't helping; you'll be very embarrassed if you didn't win. You don't see how you couldn't win, though. That went better than the month board and you were so prepared it almost seemed easy.

Still, you're not getting your hopes up.

SSG Pierce is standing between you and your platoon sergeant, looking disinterested in the activities around her. She's talking to SFC Fabray about how the board went, how she answered all the book questions correctly, but thinks she might have botched one of the situational questions.

"I never know if they want me to give them the book answer, or what I would do in real life," she mumbles to her friend.

"How do you usually answer?"

"I tell them what the book answer is, then what I would do and why," she shrugs, frowning. "I know First Sergeant likes to hear about how NCOs want to hem up their soldiers, but you know I don't work like that."

"All you can do is be honest, Britt," SFC Fabray tells her, "I'm sure you did fine."

She crosses her arms over her chest and doesn't say anything.

First Sergeant walks into the room and everyone stands a little straighter. Her cold eyes seek out the NCOs that competed against SSG Pierce, "What are you two still doing here?"

SSG Pierce's competition answers, "Um, waiting for the results, First Sergeant?"

"Like any of you could have beaten Pierce," she scoffs, "but if you'd like me to say it to your face, you lost. Congratulations, Sergeant Pierce."

"Thank you, First Sergeant," she allows a small smile to come to her face. You're so caught up in her success that you forget that your fate is still on the line.

"And Fabray," First Sergeant Sylvester addresses you platoon sergeant and looks you dead in the eye. You feel your body tense under her stare, "Strong work with this one. If anyone can teach her how to keep that attitude in check, it would be you."

She walks out of the room without another word. Everyone turns to you then back to the door. You lean a little closer to SSG Pierce to whisper, "Does that mean I won?"

"Yeah, it does," she smiles down at you, watching your face light up with the excited smile that you can't keep back. Her eyes might just linger on your smile, on your lips, but it might have been your excitement making you see things.

Soldier of the Quarter.

You did that. Your name and picture will be hung on a bulletin board for the next three months celebrating your awesomeness. How you kicked that board's ass and impressed all the right people. You feel like a badass. You feel like you're worth more than anyone's ever given you credit for.

"What did I tell you?" SFC Fabray grins smugly. "Third platoon, all day long."

SSG Pierce adds in with a quiet and ever modest voice, "And headquarters."

"Owned it," SFC Fabray laughs as the losers walk out of the room.

"Fist bump," SSG Pierce crosses her arms over her chest, offering a closed fist to both you and your platoon sergeant.

You lightly tap your fist against hers, taking care to make it look as casual as possible, to make it look like the smile on your face is from winning some competition and not the open invitation to touch her in a friendly gesture of celebration. That second of contact, the fleeting brush of knuckles to share this moment of accomplishment; like you did this together, like you were a team…

That means more to you than the win.

* * *

Every month the Army gives you a three day weekend. They're called training holidays and you suppose that it's the Army's best way to keep their soldiers happy. Usually, you and Sam would be in Nashville the whole weekend, but like always, the company has to ruin it somehow.

The Family Readiness Group is throwing a barbeque celebration for no reason other than to give the wives that run it an excuse to get together and gossip. You're watching them, from a slightly out of the way picnic table, as they gather around the serving tables, looking just _so_ Susie Homemaker in their cut off jean shorts and their low cut tops. You wonder if they're trying to out-cleavage each other.

The fact that this day of fun is mandatory is the only reason you're here. At least it's free food. You look across the table to where Evans is playing his PSP.

"What game are you playing?" you ask for something to say.

"Kingdom Hearts," he glances up only briefly before getting back to his game.

"I liked that one," you take a sip of your soda and look around for someone else to judge. Your eyes wander until you find something that makes you uneasy, and it's not a gaudy outfit. "I'll be right back."

You stand before Evans even gets the chance to respond. You jog across the picnic area, passed the building with the bathrooms, and get to the edge of the grass just before the small toddler you've been chasing does. She had been heading for the parking lot until you stepped in front of her. You would never consider yourself maternal, but toddlers and parking lots don't mix in your mind. Not when there's a bunch of soldiers driving around too fast in cars they spent their entire enlistment bonus on.

She stops dead in her tracks when you cut her off, looking up at you with large almond colored eyes. She looks around, maybe for her mom? You're not sure, but she takes a few steps to the left, trying to move past you. You only have to take one to block her path again.

"Where's your mom?" you ask as if she was an adult. She just stares at you. You're not sure how old she is, maybe three? Can three year olds talk yet? She looks like she should be able to know how to talk, in her Blue's Clues tee shirt and shorts, she's looks adorable.

You squat down, trying to be as nonthreatening as possible, glancing over her shoulder and hoping to see a mom running around looking for a kid. You don't see anyone. This one might have escaped the playground area entirely unnoticed.

"Where's your mom?" you ask again, softer this time.

She blinks at you, her eyes assessing you in that weird way kids do. She mumbles something and you only catch half of it, and that half sounded familiar to another side of you brain. It gives you an idea. You look over her again, her dark hair, almond brown eyes, naturally tanned skin. Much like your own.

"Donde es tu mami?"

She seems to understand that, and looks around realizing she's missing someone very important. You see her start to freak out, so you ask if she wants to go find her mom. She smiles at that, pointing to the picnic area and taking a step closer to you, lifting her arms. You know what that means, when kids want you to pick them up. You feel awkward, because you're not sure if it's against some unwritten rule that you're not allowed to touch other people's kids, but whatever. They're the ones letting her run into parking lots, so being held by you should be the least of their worries.

You put your hands under her armpits and lift her onto your hip. Cradling her backside with one arm and holding her back with the other hand. It seems natural and you've seen your cousins do it with their children so many times you were sure their spines would start to grow crooked after a while.

Now that she knows you speak her language she isn't shy about talking at all. In fact, she won't stop talking about her favorite cartoon and how her brother thinks Blue is better than Magenta.

"Are you kidding me?" you offer with a smile. She's cute, you'll entertain her one-sided conversation until you find her mom as long as she doesn't start crying. "Los chicos son tontos."

"Lopez."

You glance over to the person who said your name, hoping that it's the mother of this child. It's not. It's the pair of blonde sergeants that look just as thrilled to be here as you are. Although, they make disgruntled look much more stylish than you do.

SFC Fabray is wearing a yellow sundress and white short sleeved cardigan that's both pretty and surprising. This is the first time you've seen her in civilian clothes and you're impressed. Hovering, almost hesitantly, just behind her shoulder is SSG Pierce, whose knee length checkered shorts and Boston Marathon tee shirt look wonderful on her. Mostly because—while entirely modest and appropriate for a company function—they let you see her curves far more than her uniform does, and the way her sleeves are rolled up, the view of her biceps is amazing.

"Mami!"

The kid in your arms gently reminds you of her presence with a few rapid taps to your shoulder, pointing towards the playground.

"Esta bien," you say quickly, eyes following her finger, maybe she saw her mom.

SFC Fabray steps closer, eying the child, then you, "I didn't know you had a daughter."

"What?" you look back to your platoon sergeant bewildered. She thinks this is your child? Your eyes shift over to SSG Pierce, who's looking between you and the toddler with an unreadable expression. "Holy crap, no. No, no, _no_, this isn't my kid—I found her running around the parking lot."

"Really?" SFC Fabray laughs, genuinely surprised, "you look so perfect together."

"Yeah, you really," SSG Pierce adds in, licking her lips and there's just a hint of something behind her eyes that you still can't get a read on. "You kinda look the part. It's cute."

You flush, at being called cute and because there's something about being told that you at least look like you could be a good mom that makes you uncomfortable. To hide it, you stage whisper to the toddler in your arms, "It's because we're both Hispanic. Can you say, racial profiling? Estereotipo."

Your platoon sergeant chuckles, rolling her eyes, "Let's go find her mom."

"Gladly, she won't stop talking about Blue's Clues," you mumble, falling into step with her and the senior medic.

Finding her mom was simple enough, as soon as she spotted the woman she hit your shoulder and pointed until you moved in that direction. Unwilling to have an awkward 'I found your kid running into a parking lot because you weren't paying attention' conversation, you set the toddler on the ground carefully and watch as she runs over to her mom.

"Crisis averted," SFC Fabray pats you on the back sarcastically. "Specialist Lopez, Soldier of the Quarter and savior of tiny Hispanics everywhere."

"All in a day's work, Sergeant."

She catches your eye roll and smirks. You glance over to SSG Pierce, who's standing at a picnic table a few feet away, speaking to another headquarters NCO. It only takes a moment for her to feel your eyes on her and she looks over. You dare to hold her gaze. Watching her speak out of the corner of her mouth to the person next to her while she holds your eyes.

"I hate these things," SFC Fabray catches your attention. You have to look at her to keep from drawing attention to your leering.

"When are we allowed to leave?" you ask bluntly.

She snorts, "Not until after the food, then there's going to a small thing to present awards to you and Pierce for the quarter board."

"I'm getting an award?" you hadn't known that.

"An Achievement Medal," she's looking around, a small frown in her eyes. She really doesn't want to be here. "You'll be able to add it to your pathetic excuse for a ribbon rack."

"Forgive me for not being nearly as... _experienced_ as you are, Sergeant," your lip is curling into a smile.

Her hazel eyes slid over to you, "Are you calling me old?"

"Not at all," you're not sure if you're pushing your luck or not, "I was going for knowledgeable, well-versed, seasoned in the ways of the world and with the awards and decorations to show for it."

"Get out of here," she shoves your shoulder in a manner that doesn't suit her sundress and ballerina flats, but she's grinning. "Evans looks sad over there by himself."

You chuckle as you walk away. Something makes you look back though, a tickle on the back of your neck. She's watching you go, and even as SFC Fabray joins her next to the picnic table, she doesn't look away.

You have to, because you're liable to run into something if you don't. The last thing you want to do is embarrass yourself. Again.

* * *

Balancing two plates of hamburgers you wait for Evans to fish two sodas out of the cooler. His arms are already full of those snack sized packs of chips and you're hungry.

"God, hurry up," you kick his shoe.

He laughs at you, "Calm down, I know you get when you're hungry."

"So you know you have about two seconds to get your damn soda—"

"Language!"

Captain Shuester's wife, a scrawny bean of a shrew named Terri, is in charge of the FRG and therefore in charge of the cackling batch of women passing out food and making everyone feel just oh so appreciated for their service.

"This is a family environment," she scolds you with a sweet smile on her face, as if she can't blame you for swearing. "I know you've become quite acclimatized to the... crass behavior of your fellow soldiers, but do try to remember that you're a lady."

She's looking down at you because you're a woman. She'll stand there all day long, pass out burgers and chips, batting her eyes and showing off all her assets to the men in your company, and give you the cold shoulder. You have never been able to figure out why the wives did that. Did they think you're a threat to their husbands?

You couldn't be less interested in their husbands.

Was that why they didn't like you? They thought you were some sort of power dyke running around in combat boots and waving a weapon around? Is that why you get the shifty eyes and the fake smiles? You open your mouth to say something probably just as backhanded as her comment, but someone cuts you off.

"Mrs. Schuester," SSG Pierce smiles thinly at her. It could be a believable if you didn't know her better than that. "It's so nice to see you, ma'am."

You bristle, just because the woman is married to an officer, doesn't mean that she's earned that title. Perhaps SSG Pierce is just trying to be nice.

"Please, call me Terri," she looks the medic up and down, giving her the same shifty-eyed look of appraisal as she gives you, "and you are?"

"Sergeant Pierce," she doesn't offer her first name, "thank you for setting all of this up for us, ma'am. It must have been some long hours on top of everything."

Your Commander's wife looks confused, "On top of everything?"

"I was told you work," she tilts her head, the picture of innocence.

"No," Terri's eyes harden slightly, "I haven't worked since Will was commissioned."

"Oh," SSG Pierce takes a bag of chips from a large pile, "well, some people say being a mom is a full time gig. Gives you lots of time for your kids then, right?"

"We don't have any children," her face is flushing and the fake smile on her face is strained.

"Then no wonder this is so great," the medic waves around to the picnic area.

All the tables are draped with star spangled cloths that match the plates. There's a horseshoe pit, and volleyball court set up. Music is playing from a portable stereo and everyone is really enjoying it despite how mandatory it is.

"I can really see how much of your time you've invested in it," SSG Pierce smiles again, "Thanks again, Mrs. Schuester."

She turns away from the woman, the smile on her face dropping instantly. Under her breath she says to you, "Come on, let's go remind ourselves how to be ladies."

You follow her, completely dumbfounded.

You find SFC Fabray heading your way and towards the picnic table you and Evans had claimed from the beginning. You and Evans hesitate and SFC Fabray tells you to sit. So you do. They sit across from you, talking amongst themselves like you're not even there.

"I can't stand women like that," SSG Pierce opens her bag of chips with more force than necessary.

"You know how many times I've been given the," your platoon sergeant's voice takes up a nasally tone, "It's so nice to meet you! Did one of the boys get hitched, which one's the lucky man?"

The medic pops a chip in her mouth, "Never a soldier, always a wife."

"This group is worse than most," SFC Fabray's eyes skate around the area, "that Schuester woman, she's damn near crazy."

"Don't let her catch you swearing," SSG Pierce rolls her eyes, "she was just telling Lopez to remember how to be a lady."

"Swearing _is_ very unbecoming," she amends sarcastically.

"She isn't a lady," Evans chimes in, his mouth full of hamburger. Everyone turns to stare at him. Under your scrutiny he swallows harshly and adds in, "It's just that, well, her outfit isn't the most modest thing in the world, is it? And it might be me, but she...

"She likes it when the guys look at her," you finish for him.

The sergeants share a look and silently confer before turning towards you and nodding.

"Pretty much."

"Truth."

"We can't piss her off too bad though," SFC Fabray says quietly. "If I play my cards right, by the end of the night, you two won't be the only winners at this table."

SSG Pierce's eyes narrow, "What are you planning."

"Just wait, you'll love it," she smiles in a way that puts you on edge. She's planning something alright.

After everyone eats, and you nearly choke on your soda at least three times from the blondes making you laugh, Captain Schuester draws everyone's attention to him and First Sergeant. He makes sure to thank the Family Readiness ladies, and his wife, for the great work on the barbeque. It's not long before you and SSG Pierce are called up in front of everyone.

"Now these two here," First Sergeant takes the floor, "won the NCO and the Soldier of the Quarter boards."

There's an obligatory round of applause as you're presented your awards, the small ribbons pinned to your tee shirts more for show than anything else. This is really cool for you, because you've never been awarded anything before. Hopefully it'll be the first of many ribbons you can add to your uniform.

"And because this is the last quarter board before we hit off our pre-deployment training, we got together with the FRG to do something a little special for them," First Sergeant says it like she's almost annoyed that you're getting rewarded.

"The FRG pulled our resources to do something very special for our winners here," Terri Schuester steps forward and smiles brightly at the audience of soldiers. When she looks at you and SSG Pierce, her smile dims almost unnoticeably, "We heard you're a hockey fan, Sergeant Pierce. It's a tiny bit violent for my tastes, but since you're into that kind of thing."

If you weren't standing right next to her you wouldn't have been able to see her ears slowly start to turn a bright pink. She doesn't say anything; her face is blank and uninvolved.

"We got you both a pair of tickets to the next Predators game in Nashville," she hands you and SSG Pierce each your own envelope. "On behalf of the FRG, congratulations, we hope you have a lot of fun."

There's another round of applause and you follow SSG Pierce's lead and walk back to your picnic table. The Commander gives you all a few more minutes of crap about unit cohesion and becoming a tight knit group before the deployment. You zone him out and listen to the hushed conversation between the sergeants next to you.

"How did you pull that off?" the medic asks your platoon sergeant.

"I gave her the idea to buy the tickets a few weeks ago," you can hear the smirk in her voice. "They were planning on raffling them off today. All I had to do was mention the awards presentation, and how it would have been nice to do something for the quarter board winners, but that it was too short notice for the platoon to do anything. She jumped right in. She wanted to make a show during the presentation and flaunt how much she cares about soldiers."

"She made a show alright," SSG Pierce mumbles under her breath and you're not sure if SFC Fabray heard it.

"Now we got free tickets to the game," your platoon sergeant looks over at you. "I'm assuming that you're bringing Evans?"

You look over at your friend and laugh because he actually looks worried that you'll choose someone else, like there's anyone else you would rather bring.

SFC Fabray takes that as your answer and says, "Good, because the tickets are all together and I'd rather be in decent company."

Before you can stop yourself you glance over to SSG Pierce, right as she glances at you. It's almost amusing how you both look away instantly and find the ground much more interesting than anything else going on at the moment.

You would say that the company is going to be much more than decent.


	10. FM 3 Dash 0 Point 11

FM 3-06.11: Combined Arms Operations on Urban Terrain

* * *

When SFC Fabray isn't bragging about how her platoon took the quarter board, or telling everyone that we're going to take the next one, she's gushing about going to the hockey game next weekend. You're as excited as you are nervous about it. The hockey game is going to be a great opportunity to see SSG Pierce away from the company, and out of uniform to top that off. It's also a great opportunity to make a fool of yourself.

You've decided that there's no possible way you can keep your cool, so you'll just have to pray that she really is that big a hockey fan and maybe she'll be so wrapped up in the game that she wont notice you.f

But you have a week to worry about that, right now now you've been roped into some sort of range detail to set up for the shoot house this week. SFC Fabray is all excited about it. You can tell because when she talks about it she gets a real smile on her face, instead of that ghost of a smirk. She's wants this to go well and you have the feeling that she likes to be in the field doing real training, getting her hands dirty, and being a soldier.

"You got the truck ready?" SFC Fabray asks you as you enter the platoon office.

"It's parked out front, Sergeant," you answer with a nod. "Evans is throwing in the last of the equipment right now."

"Good," she stands from her desk and gives the few NCOs in the room some directions about the rest of the day. "Lopez, I'll meet you by the truck."

"Yes, Sergeant," you turn and head back outside, finding Evans closing the back hatch of the Humvee you've dispatched from the motorpool. "Fabray's on her way out right now."

"Cool, you driving?"

The way he asked is really just to confirm your preference, you always drive, "Yeah, does anything else need to be put in the truck?"

"Nah, I got it all," he waves you off and jumps into the back seat of the Humvee, you lean against the truck next to him. "You think there's a reason Fabray keeps pulling us for these details?"

You shrug, "I don't know, probably because we're better than all the other idiots in our platoon."

"True," he laughs and wipes some sweat of his face. "So... we're deploying soon."

"Yeah, we got what, four months?" you try to do the math in your head.

Three months for pre-deployment training and the last month will be pretty relaxed, so that everyone can take time off to be with their families. Then you'll be on lock down for a few days, tie up a few loose ends, and get on a plane.

"Are you going home for our time off?" he knows you don't talk to your family much, he knows that they never really approved of you joining the Army... or any of your life choices for that matter.

"I don't really know what I'm gonna do," you kick the dirt under your feet, feeling kind of awkward about it. "I might just stay here and relax, maybe drive down to Florida, see the ocean."

You've never seen the ocean, now seems like a pretty good time to do it.

"You know, you're welcome to come home with me," he catches your eyes and you know that it's more than some obligatory pity offer. "It's only a five hour drive to Garrett and I know you wanna learn how to ride a horse."

"Do I now?" you roll your eyes, laughing as you try to picture it. "I didn't know."

"Yep," he smiles his big dopey grin at you, "I could even give you a lesson on lassos and other need to know cowboy stuff."

You snort, reaching out to shove the bill of his patrol cap down playfully, "I'll think about it."

"My mom would sure love to have you," he adds with a softer smile, fixing his cap, "to tell the truth she's been a little nervous about the whole deployment thing, and I think it would be good for her to meet some of the people I'm going with. You know, so she knows I'm in good hands."

You have to look away so he doesn't see that you're actually really touched by his words. You don't care what kind of crap Karofsky sends your way, you'll do whatever you have to to keep from being taking away from whatever team Evans is on.

"You're such a sap, Evans," shoving his shoulder and scratching your nose roughly, trying to get back your tough soldier face.

"I know," he rolls his eyes and sighs, like he's the biggest failure in the world. He's not able to keep up the ruse for long before he's smirking at you. You have to laugh, shaking your head.

The door to the company opens and SFC Fabray walks out. She holds the door open for the woman following her and you perk up at the sight of SSG Pierce. You didn't know she would be joining you on this little mission. You're not complaining.

"Let's go, Lopez," SFC Fabray moves towards the front passenger's seat and you slip into the driver's seat. "Head out to Market Garden Road, take that left out on Mabry."

"Yes, Sergeant," you throw the truck into gear and pull off the curb.

You love driving these big military vehicles, they're loud as hell and feel totally powerful compared to anything else you've ever driven. You've already rolled down all the windows on the canvas doors so the wind is spilling in as you drive along. When you get to the corner of Market Garden and Mabry you take a left and drive out the back gate to post. Now that you're officially out of Fort Campbell the speed limit is a little higher, but you don't want to push your luck with your Platoon Sergeant in the seat next to you. You're a cop, you're supposed to follow the traffic laws.

If it was just you and Evans, you would be flying down this road.

"So, Lopez," SFC Fabray glances at you from where she had been looking out the window, "why'd you join the Army?"

This question is one of those obligatory Army conversation questions, when a group of people have nothing else to talk about besides the fact that they're all in the Army. Out of the corner of your eye you can see SSG Pierce turn towards you.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time, Sergeant," you shrug and know it sounds like you had absolutely no desire to join.

It's kind of true, kind of not. You knew it was an opportunity to do something more than what you were doing, which was nothing. One of your friends joined straight out of high school, he's a sergeant now with some field artillery unit somewhere and he loves his job. You caught up the last time he came to town and he hyped you into talking to a recruiter.

The rest is history.

You hope they don't think less of you because this wasn't your dream from the beginning, or because you're not spewing patriotism from your pores and sing the Star Spangled Banner before you go to sleep at night.

"Does it still seem like a good idea?" SFC Fabray studies you carefully.

She's asking if you regret it and you have to admit, "I'm pretty happy with it. I didn't have anything going for me back home. I needed to get out of that shit hole."

"That's good," she nods softly and then turns to your team mate in the back. "What about you, Evans?"

"I don't know, it's something I've always wanted to do," he has to almost yell to be heard over the truck and the wind, "I wanna be able to say that I did something for our country."

"Well aren't you a bundle of patriotism," she calls back to him with a smirk.

"Someone's gotta do it, Sergeant," he smiles.

You used to think he was silly for joining the Army for the soul purpose of serving our country. You thought it was impractical and naive because this job is no vacation. Getting to know him really changed your mind about that. Evans is the last person to complain about anything. He accepts his life for what it is and never expected it to be any easier. He's here because he wants to be, and that makes him a better soldier than the people who joined under less than ideal circumstances and are bitter about it.

The conversation hangs in the air because it's really easy for an NCO to ask a soldier a question, it's trickier for a soldier to ask an NCO a personal question like that. Feeling brave from the fact that SFC Fabray has handpicked you as her go to girl when she needs something done, you ask, "What about you, Sergeant?"

"Why did I join the Army?" she repeats the question like she's never considered the answer before. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" you can't keep the trace of skepticism from your voice.

She glances at you, like she's trying to figure something out, then she looks back to the window and says, "I needed a job. I left home when I was a teenager."

You want to keep watching her, but you'd probably drive off the road. You like SFC Fabray even more when she's not around the company, when there aren't so many rules and she can connect with her soldiers a little more. She likes getting to know them. You've seen her question everyone about everything. She wants to know what makes them tick, how to motivate them, and what makes them hate their lives.

"The Army will feed you, house you, pay you, and all you have to do is show up. So, I guess I know what you mean when you say it seemed like a good idea at the time," she has a haunted smile on her face. Then something glints in her eyes and she turns to her friend, "Pierce on the other hand, well, she had been planning on this since she was born, weren't cha? The Army was her destiny."

"Shut up," SSG Pierce rolls her eyes and kicks the front seat playfully, lightening the mood. "It's not that big a deal, my parents were in so I always had it in my head to join."

"Your parents were in the _Air Force_," SFC Fabray clarifies.

That strikes you as odd, "So why did you join the Army and not the Air Force?"

You catch her scratching her eyebrow before you have to look at the road again. She answers offhandedly, "It seemed like a good idea at the time?"

Your Platoon Sergeant snorts and looks at you, "She joined the Army because her parents told her she couldn't."

"Really, Fabray?" the medic looked less than amused.

"Really," she sends a teasing smile to her friend and turns back to you and Evans who are listening shamelessly, "not only were they in the Air Force, but they were officers on top of that. It was like, this big drama when she told them she wanted to enlist into the Army."

Her lips tuck to the side and she says, "That's not really how it went down..."

"Cliff notes, Pierce," SFC Fabray waves her off and continues with, "her mom told her that if she was going to serve, she was going to do it as an officer, but she flat out refused. Think about how devastated her parents were, she was going to be the first to break the distinguished string of colonels attached to her family name!"

"It's not nearly as dramatic as she's making it out to be," SSG Pierce assures the soldiers in the truck.

"Yeah, but it's makes for much better entertainment than our enlistment stories," your Platoon Sergeant points to the road, "take this left, the training site is going to be the third on your right."

* * *

The range itself was more like a few buildings in the middle of a large field. You park where SFC Fabray tells you and get out to help Evans unload all the gear. It's a bitch to wrestle all the targets and silhouettes out of the back, but the sergeants gather half the load and together everything gets moved to the edge of the shoot house.

"Here, check this out," SFC Fabray is pulling out a green notebook, walking over to you. She shows you a page in the book and you can tell it's a sketch of the building layout, with the rooms labeled in a neat script. "This is a site map, these hashes are where we need targets and how they should face."

You nod because its self explanatory, she has everything laid out for you.

"You guys take care of this, Sergeant Pierce and I are going to be laying out the glass house over there," she points to where the medic is already walking off into the field, a roll of engineers tape and a hammer in her hands. "Alright?"

"Yes, Sergeant," you're kind of happy that she's explaining everything to you instead of Evans, like she trusts you to do it right, like she knows you'll be able to take care of this for her. You want to prove her right. Somehow you've earned her trust, and what you're hoping is her respect, and you'd die if you lost it.

"Good," she hands you the book, "we'll see who finishes first."

You and Evans make quick work of the site, setting the targets into the thick sod that's covering the ground. The building is made of plywood and concrete bricks. It's built to imitate a large, complex, building with a maze of doors and halls. Your teams will take turns going through it tomorrow. That's the whole point of the training, to get you ready to search for potential threats when you're in Iraq. There's an art to clearing a building, and you really like this part of your job. It's fast, and exciting, and pretty badass.

"That's the last one," Evans tells you, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and leaning on the sledge hammer he's been using to drive the targets into the ground.

Looking over the sketched map one last time, you frown, "We're out of targets? Shit, I think she was counting on having more."

"That's all that was in the supply shed back at the company," he looks around. "This is a pretty cool place. I guess the NCOs will be hanging out up there."

You follow his gaze to the walkways that are built along the top of the walls, so that the safety NCOs can follow the infiltration team through the building and make sure they complete all the tasks correctly and without hurting anyone.

"Probably First Sergeant and her bunch of goons that do nothing but talk out their asses," you roll your eyes.

"I'll go tell Fabray that we're out of targets and ask her what she wants done," he rests the hammer against the wall and walks out.

You wait, looking at SFC Fabray's outline, trying to figure out which room you can spare targets from or if it would be better to just take a room out of the course entirely.

You hear Evans come into the room as you squint at the book, saying, "I think if we take one target from the first and third room, we can put them in here and still have enough in each room to be a challenge."

"I think that sounds like a plan."

You look up because that wasn't Evans' voice. SSG Pierce is standing in the doorway, a small smile on her face.

"Fabray wanted at least three targets in the last room," she looks around and sees that you're missing two targets. "Let's go see what we can do."

You follow her out of the room, tucking the notebook into your cargo pocket for safe keeping. She looks into each room, judging where you can spare targets. Finally, she picks two, and you're proud to find that they're from the rooms you sugested.

"Help me get this one out."

Together you wrestle two targets out of the ground and move them into the last room. She takes one and places it where she wants it. Her eyes glance around, finding the sledge hammer on the wall. You swear her eyes light up.

"Hold this still?" she asks you with quirked eyebrows and a small smirk.

You hold the target in your hands and watch her take up the sledge hammer. She spins it in her hands, testing the weight, the smile on her face growing. She looks at you, a curious shine to her eyes, "You trust me, Lopez?"

She toys with your name, saying it softer and slower than her usual speech pattern. It's drawn out and light, like your breathing under her eyes.

"Yes," you say resolutely.

You do. You would trust her with anything. She seems surprised by the firm quality in you answer, if not entirely pleased.

"Hold still, alright?"

Licking your lips, you steady your grip on the target. Your hands are sweating, but you're sure you can keep a good hold of it. She looks at her target; a small notch where the flat of the target meets the pole welded onto the back, that's what she needs to hit to drive it into the ground. Evans had just done about twenty of these and you didn't waiver and you didn't flinch. Something about his country charm made you feel like he's done this countless times before. You realize that she might not be as experienced in the ways of sledgehammers… but what's the worst that can happen?

She's holding your eyes as she flicks her wrist, spinning the sledge hammer in her hands. You're not sure what she's waiting for, and the silence is killing you, so you say, "Are you going to hit this thing or what?"

Her answer is a smile, "Is that how you address a Non-Commissioned Officer?"

"Sergeant," you add with the smallest smirk.

Her eyes dropping to the target. She reaches up and cocks her patrol cap back so that her bangs are spilling out from underneith. She bites her lip, bringing the sledgehammer back in a powerful arch. You take all of your nerves out on the target in your hands, tightening your grip until it hurts. When the metals collide, your palms sting from the force of it. Her aim is on point, and the target sinks two or three inches into the ground.

SSG Pierce lets out this pleased chuckle, like she's surprised that it worked. Her eyes meet yours and if the target hadn't already been in the ground, you might have dropped it.

Her eyes are wide and excited, a curl of blonde hair escaping her hair pins and laying delicately along her cheek, the breath huffing out of her smiling lips. You feel yourself smiling along with her, though, it's for an entirely different reason. She takes up the sledgehammer again and raises her eyebrows, you hold the target still. The blunt impact rattles the target in your hands, the sensation running through your arms and into your shoulders. Your muscles quake like your pulse.

She doesn't break after that hit and continues to drive the target further into the ground, swing after swing. You watch, completely captivated. There's a strength about her that's charmingly subtle. She's confident with her hands and her body moves easily through the brash motion with a grace you know Evans didn't pull off.

She's powerful, intimidating, and beautiful all in one.

Too soon, both targets are set in the ground and you have no more reason to watch her.

"I think we'll be able to make do with this," she glances over the targets and then back at you. She's doing that thing, where NCOs forget that they're supposed to be hard asses all the time, and she's letting her real personality slip through. "Are you excited for this training?"

"Yeah, actually," you nod, looking around in an attempt to be causal. "I really like this stuff."

She walks over to the door and presses her shoulder into the wall next to it, bracing her feet into the dirt, setting the head of the sledgehammer into her shoulder and holding it much like she would a weapon. She glances up at you with a flash of a smile before she brings the sledgehammer up like she would raise the barrel of her rifle and bolts out the door.

"Come on, Lopez!"

You jog out into the hallway, looking around for her. A strong hand takes a fist full of your uniform top and pulls you into the wall.

"If that's what you call tactical movement," she teases in a hushed voice, a bare foot from you, "we're in for a lot of work."

She's still holding the sledgehammer like a rifle, her shoulder leaning against yours as her body faces down one side of the hall, watching your back. It takes you a moment to gather yourself and realize that you're supposed to be covering the other side of the hallway.

You move your hands to mimic holding a rifle, a bewildered smile coming onto your face as you whisper, "What are we doing?"

"We're taking the objective," she breathes back to you, her eyes working around the hallway like she's ready for an attack at any moment. She's still smiling; lively, with a hint of mischief, and you're being infected with the feeling. "Quick, move forward to the next door."

"Ready to move?" you ask because you know you can't just take off.

"Yeah, go, go," she starts leaning into you, prepping your movement so you can both step off together, moving as a group—you looking forward, her following along as she covers the rear, shoulders never breaking contact.

You stop just shy of the door, maybe three inches from the edge of the wall, "Are we clearing the room?"

"Duh," she turns, taking the usual close-knit position of an infiltration stack.

This is how it's done, a group of people moving as one entity, filling into a room so quickly that the enemy doesn't know what hit them. The key to this movement in proximity, so as soon as the first man steps off, the last man knows to charge in without a second of delay. So she's standing close to you, very, very, close to you.

You can feel her breath on the back of your neck and with a shaky voice you say, "One up."

"Two up," she responds, pressing, guiding, encouraging, you closer to the door, ready to move with you. Ready to help protect you as her point man.

You take a tight breath the you breach through the door, bringing your imaginary weapon to your cheek and pointing the barrel at the first blind corner, then bringing it towards the center of the room clearly. You feel her moving behind you, taking the opposite wall.

"Bang bang," she whispers, pointing her sledgehammer at the targets.

"One up," you say after she eliminates the enemy in the room. It's now officially 'clear' and the proper thing to do is get accountability of your team.

"Two up," she catches your eye from across the room.

It's a single look, your hands are still holding an imaginary weapon and she's still using the sledgehammer like a rifle. Her eyes flick over to the wall and you're moving with her, in an unspoken agreement to continue this little game. You're on the wall before you know it and she falls into place behind you.

"Do you want to take point?" you ask quietly, afraid that if you question too much that this will stop, she'll step away from you.

"Would you want your medic to be the first one in the door?"

"No," you shake your head. The point man is a dangerous job and medics shouldn't be in that position. "Friendlies coming out."

Again she's prompting your movement with her body, urging you forward. You take a deep breath, reading yourself for movement, your back into her chest, she moves in closer and you step off together, through the door and down the hall. You stop at the next door and she's there, just behind you, ready for your command.

"One up."

"Two up."

She's pressing again, and you move, bringing up your imaginary weapon and bursting through the doorway.

Corner, pan, "bang, bang," you tag the target in the far corner as she takes the second on the other side of the room.

"One up."

"Two up."

You're stacking up on the wall, quickly, efficiently, like you've been doing this together for years.

"You're kinda good at this," she speaks softly over your shoulder, still pressing forward and with an unspoken suggestion and you move forward with her, into the hallway. "You know it's entirely different in real life."

The undertone in her voice makes you shudder. You come up to the next room, stopping outside the door. She's behind you again. The handle of the sledge hammer is brushing along the outside of your thigh. This time she doesn't prompt you to keep moving, she just stands there, behind you, breathing.

The airs seems tight, expecting. You clench your fingers into fists.

You feel compelled to say something, so you blunder, "I bet."

She nudges your side and you turn, pressing your shoulders against the wall next to her. The head of the sledge hammer falls into the dirt between you with a weighty thud.

"It's faster." You find her eyes, there's a feeling behind them that's as heavy as the sledge hammer. "Louder. People are yelling, there's… other noises."

Her eyes move around, looking at the hallway you're in, the doorways you're surrounded by. She's not seeing them, she's seeing the past, the _real life_ part of this training; her life.

"You're never sure what's gonna happen," she leans into the plywood on one shoulder, still facing you, keeping her eyes fixed to the unit patch on your sleeve. "All you know is that you have to go in, get something or someone, and get out. This whole—" she waves uselessly with one hand, "idea that everything behind you is safe once you've cleared it... is make believe. It's a fantasy. Nothing is safe. Not when you're in the middle of some gritty city filled with people trying to kill you."

There's nothing you can say that will sound remotely intelligent right now. Not when she's talking about being in a situation where she honestly doesn't know if she'll come out alive and the closest you've gotten to that was being mugged once. Your fingers grip the bottom hem of your uniform top for something to do. You hazard to glance at her and your breath hitches when you find that she's already looking at you.

"It's _so_ different in real life."

You want to take it away, that cloud behind her eyes.

"I don't mean to," she draws her hand up, scratching at the plywood she's leaning on, "scare you or anything, I just… I never—they don't tell you that stuff in training, but it's good to know."

You nod, "Is there any chance that we're going to be doing this stuff on our deployment?"

"The command is as clueless as we are, Lopez," she shrugs. "We won't know what's going on until we get boots on the ground."

"You um, did this with the infantry?" your voice sounds about as firm as a wet noodle.

"I did, and with MPs," her eyes flick from the plywood to yours.

"The SRT thing Sergeant Fabray was talking about?" you're prying. She studies you and you do everything in your power to keep from looking away. You want to prove that you're worth hearing about what she means when she says in real life. You want to know about her life more than you care about your own.

"Special Reaction Team," she clarifies. "Yeah, we did a lot of this. It's all about active shooters, hostage situations… bad guys with big guns in tight spaces."

Objectively, it sound really awesome, thrilling in a way people wish their lives could be. Who doesn't want to bust into doors and get bad guys? Who doesn't want to be the special team that gets called when the regular MPs weren't enough?

Who doesn't want that kind of glory?

You push on, "Was it the same kind of thing when you deployed?"

"Sort of, it was more search and secure missions," she explains.

"For what?" you feel completely ignorant.

"High value targets," she continues to pick at the plywood, "people of interest, raids for intelligence or like, when the insurgents stash all their weapons and we get word of it, we would go in and bust it up."

When she's told you she's seen worse, you realize that the blisters on your feet are nothing compared to what she might have seen.

"Those were always really freaky," SSG Pierce shifts her weight to her other foot, her body slouching an inch lower and putting her at eye level. She's about an inch from your shoulder and you feel the wood move behind your back when she fidgets. "You get in there and get everything secured, and when everything settles down, and your heart stops beating like a rabbit's, you look around... and you're like, surrounded by weapons that were meant to kill you."

"Shit."

You are _so_ articulate.

If she notices your embarrassed blush, she doesn't comment, choosing to continue, "I know, right? There were seriously piles, and piles, of riffles, grenades, stuff for IEDS, fricken RPGs. It was all sitting there in some warehouse, just waiting…" she trails off, wetting her lips with a flash of her tongue. "It was such a mind trip. Like, on one hand, you just kept all these weapons from being used on Americans, so you feel totally badass. Then, on the other hand, it's makes you feel very, very, small."

By small she means vulnerable. Human. Mortal.

Completely capable of being erased from existence in an instant. You have no idea what it might be like to face that head on, to confiscate the tools of the enemy and realize just how much damage they could cause. You can't imagine it and she's been there and done it; with her bloodstained boots and months of deployment time under her belt.

She looks at you with a peculiar expression, one side of her lips quirk up, slightly confused and almost surprised, "You know, I never really talk about this stuff."

Your stomach tightens. You feel horrible for pushing, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No," her reassurance is genuine, her smile a little wider, "you're allowed to be curious. Experience is a great teacher."

"You are a great teacher," you're not looking at her when you say it, your boots are much more interesting, "way better than my NCO."

The sound of her nail against the plywood stops and after a moment you have to look over, too morbidly curious to not see her reaction to your compliment. Your eyes fall into hers and you see nothing else because, if she hadn't cocked her patrol cap back it would be touching the bill of your own, you're standing that close.

Too close, maybe? Should you move back? Had she moved forward?

You notice a few small things; the way the hollow of her neck, just barely visible from under her tan tee shirt, flutters as she swallows. Her lips are slightly parted, ready to say words she hasn't quite decided on yet. Her ears, rosy tips framed by blonde hair. The most important of all of these things is her eyes, crinkling at the corners with an innocent modesty that makes you think she might say something like, aww shucks.

She doesn't say that though, instead she draws back, placing her fist over her mouth to cough, her eyes falling from yours. When she looks back at you there's a easygoing nature to them.

"Thanks, Lopez, but I thought Karofsky was getting better lately. I mean, you haven't had any more timeouts have you?"

She's trying to make light of the minute you just spent staring at each other. You shrug, blinking towards the wall because you're so transparent, "I still think he's a pretty close resemblance to a neanderthal, but yeah, he's bearable."

SSG Pierce laughs at your blunt honesty, "I'm sorry, I know Fabray has been thinking about switching him out."

"Really?" you perk up at that. "With who?"

"Crap," she bites her lip, looking apologetic, "I'm not sure you were supposed to know that."

You snort, if she can brush off the serious conversation you just had, so can you, "I won't tell anyone, or get my hopes up, don't worry."

"Awesome," she sounds relieved, still worrying her lip between her teeth. You try not to stare. "We should probably get back to the others."

You nod, pushing off the wall and turning. It was a great private moment while it lasted, better than the glances you get around the company area, and much better than nothing at all.

A strong hand finds it's way around your bicep, you look over your shoulder, confused.

"That doesn't mean you're finished with your lesson," she's smirking, eyes sparkling and pushing you until your shoulder hits the wall.

You suck in a breath around your grin, turning forward and bringing your arms up like your holding a rifle. This is the second time she's put you into a wall and even if she's still a foot behind you, it feels too good somewhere in the pit of your stomach.

The sledgehammer is risen and she steps just a little closer, taking her position in the stack. Her foot is just inside yours, her hip is locking into that place where your ass meets your thigh, her shoulder square between your shoulder blades. Your heart is racing so quickly you might as well be in the middle of a city filled with people trying to kill you. It takes every active thought in your mind to keep from leaning back into her; not that you need to, she's shifting her weight forward, pressing into your back and willing you to move.

Even without vocal prompts you're in sync, you step off together, your feet fall at an steady cadence, you could possibly be breathing on the same rhythm.

You come up to a corner in the hall. She waits for your direction. She's testing you, seeing what you know. With only a brief hesitation you ask, "Should we pie the wall?"

"Should we?"

You can hear the smile in her voice over your shoulder. The amusement whispering into your ear.

"It's the second in the stack that does it right?" you need to know if she's going to do it or if...

"I want you to do it," she says what you guessed would happen, "to see if you know how to do it right."

You lick your lips, taking a step away from the wall, keeping your eyes on the corner of the hallway and the possible threat. She moves into your vacated position. With each step you take, slowly gaining more and more visibility down the hallway, she takes a matching step, closer and closer to the corner.

"Stop," she says, and you do, glancing at her for direction. "When you're right there, like forty-five degrees off the corner, that's when we take the pie."

"Take the pie?" you've never heard that expression before.

"Yeah," she's against the corner ready to move past and into the hallway, "on our mark, I pop out around the corner while you shoot to the other side of the hall. Keep your eyes on the far side of your wall, I'll take my side. Got it?"

"What's the mark?" you balance on the balls of your feet.

"You say ready; I say move."

She has this smile on her face, it's beautiful and you want to frame it.

"Ready?"

She holds your eyes and takes a breath, "Move!"

You step into the hallway together, taking absolute care to keep from pointing your imaginary weapon at her back. Your shoulder brushes the far wall and she's on the other side, eyes forward and ready for an enemy attack, but instead of terrorists, you find a mildly surprised Platoon Sergeant.

"Bang, bang!" SSG Pierce laughs, straightening up and dropping the sledge hammer into a more appropriate postion.

You lower your hands too, feeling like you've just been caught doing something much more scandalous than practicing tactical movement with the senior medic.

"What are you doing?" SFC Fabray asks her friend, a hint of a smile on her face.

She doesn't seem to find this odd at all. There's no suspicion in her voice, nothing malicious, she's genuinely curious. You're positive that if you and Evans had been running around playing war there would have been much more bite to that question. Once again, your Platoon Sergeant is showing her weak spot when it comes to the medic.

SSG Pierce swings the sledge hammer to lay over her shoulders, gripping it with both hands, "Teaching Lopez how to take the pie."

You meet SFC Fabray's eyes and realize that you're both on the same page. That sounded incredibly wrong, "Were you now?"

"Yeah," the medic frowns, confused, "around the corner there."

She's just making it worse and you're squirming on the inside.

"I think she already knows how to take the pie, B."

You scoff, looking up at the ceiling because the smirk on your Platoon Sergeant's face is going to make you blush.

"What?" SSG Pierce looks confused, glancing at you to confirm that you didn't know how to assault around a corner, but you can't meet her eyes.

Your face is burning and you suck in your bottom lip, willing yourself not to laugh. If SSG Pierce wasn't standing there you probably would have laughed and threw your Platoon Sergeant a backhanded comment in retort. She thinks your snark is funny most times. She's been joking with you like that for a few days now.

It's lighthearted, and you recognize the tone. It's the same tone she uses when she teases SSG Pierce, so it doesn't feel like she means any harm. She's polite enough to make sure it's in private and when no one but Evans is around. This time, however, you could have hoped for better timing, you hate to ruin your thing with the medic. You were totally owning the tactical movement thing.

SSG Pierce realizes that she's missing something and out of the corner of your eye you see her glancing between the two of you. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," SFC Fabray tries to brush it off. She fails when her smile gets even bigger by her friend's cluelessness. "Let's get out of here."

"Quinn."

She's annoyed at being kept out of the loops, she probably feels like the butt of a joke.

"No, seriously," SFC Fabray nods towards the way she came, "are all the targets set?"

"Yeah, but I still want to know—" the medic huffs, taking a step forward and then she stops. Her eyes screw up and a blush on her face just blooms.

The Platoon Sergeant in front of her laughs openly this time, because she knows that SSG Pierce figured out the innuendo about teaching you something around the corner there. You kick the dirt under your foot and try not to look at her.

She steps towards her friend, the expression on her face might have been a glare if she hadn't been blushing so badly. You can't help but think she's adorable. When she gets next to your Platoon Sergeant, who doesn't back up an inch, only waits with that amused smirk that only seems to annoy SSG Pierce even more, she says, "You're horrible, like, on the inside."

"You walked into that one," SFC Fabray insists, turning to watch the medic walk by.

"Well _you're_ walking home," she calls over her shoulder, before disappearing around another corner.

SFC Fabray snorts, crossing her arms over her chest as if to accept that challenge. She looks back at you, nearly as an afterthought. She smirks, "I thought it was funny."

You shrug, unsure of who's side you want to take.

"You've better be on point tomorrow when we run through this," she gives you an appraising look. "You have the advantage of seeing the course, and a private lesson from one of the best in the company so I expect nothing short of flawless."

Nodding, you promise yourself to kick ass tomorrow.

"Just don't let Karofsky mess it up for you," she chuckles, "that guy looks about as agile as a gorilla."

"Yes, Sergeant."

She catches your eye and knows exactly what you're agreeing too.


	11. FM 90 Dash 10

FM 90-10: Military Operations on Urbanized Terrain.

* * *

"Hey, Britt?"

You pull your head out of the bottom of a storage trunk when you hear your friend's voice. Your foot catches something and it causes a small avalanche of camouflaged... stuff, to surround you.

For the past hour you've been in this walk in closet, surrounded by shoes, dresses, and heaps of excess military gear. You have no idea how or when you've picked up this many canteens, ammo pouches, utility tools, or accessories for an M4, but the stack of storage trunks are taking up precious space for more stylish accessories. Right now, you've been looking for your favorite pair of tactical gloves. You want them for the training tomorrow. You should have found them a while ago but the sheer amount of stuff you have to look through has been putting you off.

"Britt?"

You paused too long and don't miss the change in her tone. You call back, "Yeah, Q."

There's no answer. She didn't need anything more than to make sure you're still in the house. That you haven't magically disappeared and that she's not alone. Quinn has a thing about being alone in a house. You don't mention it, or the few times that she's walked into your bedroom at night. The first time it happened you sat up, groggy and confused and asking if something was wrong. Quinn told you to go back to sleep and left without another word.

Quinn likes knowing you're there, and really, you can't blame her.

Three boxes and a horrible packing job later, you've found your gloves. You put them on just to reacquaint yourself with the feeling. The worn mixture of leather and nomex is like a second skin. You run your fingers over the protective layer of leather on your knuckles and parts of your palms. These gloves have taken you there and back. The cloth at the inside of the wrist is darkened with sweat spots and worn in the place you grip with your finger and your thumb to pull them on.

They smell of leather and sweat, mixed in with a memory of gunpowder and desert.

Armed with your trusty hand guards, you gather up the rest of your equipment. Your helmet hasn't changed since you've left Fort Carson, you run your finger over the embroidered patches sewn into each side. They match the patch on the shoulder of your uniforms, the four leaves of ivy for the 4th Infantry Division. You'll have to take it off eventually, because you're no longer with that unit, but no matter how much you don't want to be seen as bragging about your former experience, you're dragging your feet about erasing all traces of it.

You really miss that unit.

Your vest is new, freshly assigned to you by Fort Campbell, and it doesn't match the worn pouches that you've attached to tactical webbing. You miss the vest you had already broken in at Fort Carson. The Army is stupid for not letting you take it with you. This will do fine for the time being. You'll be issued the better version just before you deploy anyway.

After you've assured yourself that you're not missing anything, you gather your gear and leave your closet. You find Quinn on the couch. You drop your gear near the front door, placing your helmet on top of your combat vest and your aid bag next to it. You take off your gloves and tuck them into a pouch on your vest with your ballistic sunglasses. Glancing at Quinn's gear for a second, you ask, "Hey, can I throw some stuff in your assault pack for tomorrow?"

"Only if you share," she sends you a smile. She knows you well enough to call you out on always having something to eat when you go out into the field.

"Deal," you cross into the living room and fall onto the couch next to her. She's working, the notebooks on her lap and on the coffee table are enough to tell you that. "What's up?"

She knows what you're asking and doesn't look up from her trusty green notebook, "I'm trying to finalize the team structures. I'm moving a few people around in first and second squad."

You glance at the television, which is only on for background noise. It's another things she does to keep the loneliness away.

"Better to do it now then later," you admit. If she's going to make changes it needs to happen before the soldiers spend three months training for a deployment as a team. One of the most important parts of the pre-deployment training is getting familiar with your team and how you work together.

You lean over and glance at her notes, the scribbling of names and assignments.

There's one name that catches your attention.

"What are you doing with the Karofsky thing?"

"I want to give him to another platoon," she mumbles, tapping her pen against her bottom lip and frowning. "He's worthless to me."

You snort, "You're so dramatic."

"And you're spoiled," Quinn points her pen in your direction. "Just because Flanagan will bend over backwards to get you to smile at him, doesn't mean every other soldier is as accommodating."

"That's an exaggeration," you roll your eyes, but you know you've really lucked out with him. Flanagan is not a problem soldier, if anything he's too willing to go out of his way for you.

"He follows you around like a lost puppy, wagging his tail," Quinn smirks, looking over her notebook again. Her voice turns into a mocking tone, "_yes, Sergeant, right away, Sergeant. What can I do for you, Sergeant. Is there anything else—_"

"Okay!" you nudge your elbow into her ribs to get her to stop. "Okay, so maybe he's—"

"A brown-noser?"

"No—"

"Begging for your approval?"

"Eager," you say firmly, hoping she'll stop making fun of your soldier. "He's eager to do the right thing, be a good soldier."

"He's eager for something alright," Quinn chuckles to herself and it earns her another elbow to the ribs.

"He wants to learn," you grumble, getting tired of her teasing.

"He'll sit and listen to everything that comes out of your mouth," Quinn flips through her notebook, looking for something lost between the pages, "just because you're the one that's talking."

You roll your eyes, "He looks up to me, that's what soldiers do. It's just hero worship."

"It's pathetic," Quinn sends you a sly look and you look down at your sweatpants, picking at a spot on the knee.

"Right, like you don't have your own groupies," you scoff, deflecting, "the way you're stringing Lopez around, it's like you want her to..."

You trail off because that wasn't deflecting at all.

That was admitting.

You can feel her eyes on you, and your face is heating up under her stare.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

You don't miss the insult in her voice, the troubled nature of her words. She's feels self-conscious now, because if that's what you think, who knows what perception everyone else has gotten. You don't meet her eyes but you give her a resolute, "No, I didn't mean that. I don't know why I said it."

Quinn is quiet for a moment, and you'd rather her be angry and yelling than quiet. Quiet means thinking, thinking means figuring, and when Quinn figures, she's almost always right.

"Then why'd you say it?"

"Because..." you're not a liar. You've never been able to do it right and Quinn, she deserves the truth and your honesty. "I don't know, before you came, she was pretty lost, and there were times that like... it felt like I was getting through to her, past her attitude when no one else wants to give her the time of day."

"Aww, Britt," Quinn throws her arm over your shoulder and pulls you close, "am I poaching on your favorite soldiers?"

"Maybe," you grumble into her shoulder.

"Well, she is my new favorite," she closes her notebook and sets it on the other side of the couch. "I'll admit to that, but I'm going to take good care of her."

"I'm not worried about that," you know she'll understand the compliment in your words.

"Lopez is spunky, and like you said, she has a hell of an attitude, but she's pretty impressionable. I think I can work with it," Quinn rubs your arm slowly. "Actually, she reminds me of myself when I was at that rank."

You let out a puff of laughter, remembering, "You were pretty wild."

"Beyond control," she says and you can hear the smile in her voice, "I mouthed off, I copped an attitude with everyone, I was always in trouble and the only person that was able to get through to me was a strong, female, NCO who I could respect and try to model myself after."

You know that was what Quinn's been doing this whole time. You know it. Lopez needs guidance just as much as you did when you were a junior soldier and maybe Quinn's the only one that can really get to her. You wish you could do more for the soldier, but honestly she's not your responsibility.

"Do you think I'm getting too close?"

You look up, surprised at how hesitant that question sounds, like she's really afraid of the answer.

"I think you're getting there," you admit, "like, everyone has their favorites, Q, but we're not supposed to let them know that they're our favorites because then they'll get big heads."

"Yeah," she nods, considering your words, "I don't think I need to cause anything else between her and Karofsky."

"I don't like him," you mumble.

"I'm just looking for an excuse, honestly," Quinn rests her head against the back of the couch, closing her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"I need a reason to get him out of that team. He doesn't work well with Lopez and she works too well with Evans to waste it."

"Please don't bait him," you sigh. Quinn's never been afraid to needle a reaction out of someone when she wants something. Usually that something is proving that she has more military discipline than the other person by calmly stating facts that they might take offense too.

"I'm not going to bait him," she chuckles because she was planning on it, "but if he gives me a window I'm going to take it."

"Just make sure Lopez and Evans aren't going to get any backlash."

That's what you're really worried about. If Karofsky figures out that Lopez is her new favorite, he might take it as undermining his authority over his soldier and try to be that much harder on the girl.

"Yeah, yeah," Quinn shrugs. "You know it might actually be a really good test for her. If she can keep her cool with Karofsky breathing down her neck then she's really worth my time."

"I'm not sure she has that kind of fuse control yet," you have to smile a little, because Lopez's lack of fuse is actually really cute.

"That's what I plan on teaching her."

* * *

"They're so sloppy," Quinn mutters next to you.

From your position on the catwalk, you watch the team of soldiers run through the shoot house course. They look gaudy, unfamiliar with working in their gear, and they are, actually sloppy. It's going to be a long day.

Quinn's frustration is only growing as the teams consistently fail to meet her standards. That doesn't mean that they're entirely hopeless though, Quinn's standards are crazy high. You know it comes from a place of experience, that she's seen what can happen when people are sloppy and doesn't want that to happen to her soldiers, but her level of skill is earned with experience and it's something that these soldiers just don't have yet.

"They're learning," you remind Quinn with a smile. You've been trying to keep her mood light all day. It's only kind of working.

She takes her eyes off the team below just quickly enough to catch and return your smile, however wryly, "They make me want to throw up."

"He's moving too fast," you point, "they're leaving their fourth man out to dry."

Quinn's eyes narrow, analyzing, finding your words correct. The first two men in the group are moving too fast and aren't waiting for their fourth man to fully join the stack before they enter the next room. This is one of the only teams with four men a squad leader and three soldiers.

She lifts a whistle to her lips. Your insides are cringing at the harsh sound, but your face remains serious. The team halts, lowering their weapons and looking up, both confused and pensive. They know they did something wrong.

"_You all suck!"_

First Sergeant Sylvester, who has been pacing the observer's line like a hungry lion, screams down at them through a megaphone so they can be sure to hear it even with their ear protection in.

"_I've never seen such a batch of slop! You're a bunch of GI Sloppy Joes!"_

"I'll take care of this, First Sergeant," SFC Fabray tells her evenly.

She eyes you both, knowing full well that she put you in charge of this and the training is in your hands. You get the feeling that she's enjoying watching Quinn manage this training, and so well. She turns on her heel and heads to the staircase, "You'd better, Fabray."

"Look Sergeant," Quinn yells down at the soldiers, "how about you make sure your third and fourth man are part of the stack before you breach a room."

Under her direction, they move back three rooms and restart the course. Two rooms in you have to admit, "That's a little better."

Quinn makes an unimpressed noise and you laugh.

* * *

"Alright who's up next?"

Clipboard in hand, you're writing in the last team's scores as you walk down the stairs to the safety's catwalk. Most of the company has already tested but it's been taking longer than you thought, Quinn has been throwing teams back out to the glass house for retraining. First and Second Platoons passed with meager scores and you know that Quinn is hoping Third will be a little better.

"Third Platoon, second squad, bravo team."

The sound of his voice grates on your ears. Glancing up, you find Sergeant Karofsky and his team waiting for you at the entrance of the shoot house. She's standing off to the side with Evans, watching you from behind the clear lenses of her ballistic eye protection. You're thankful that, as an instructor, you were allowed to wear dark lenses.

You feel like it gives you an advantage.

"You guys got all your safety stuff?" you look them over, making sure they have their eye-pro, gloves, helmets are buckled snugly, vests fitting properly.

"Yes, Sergeant," he sounds annoyed that you even asked, like you were doubting him or something. You realize that he doesn't like you, maybe he's still bitter about getting chewed out by Quinn. You don't really care, it's easy enough to brush him off as the hot head that he is.

Lopez and Evans echo the sentiment with a much kinder tone. You hear it in their voices, they're excited for the training. You can't help but realize how small she looks in her gear. Her vest is probably an extra small, and completely dwarfed by the size of her team leader's. Small as she might be, you can see that fire in her eyes, she's ready to prove herself. The challenge Quinn gave her yesterday is still fresh in her mind.

You remember your job and ask, "Ear protection?"

They all tilt their heads and you can see the orange or tan buds in their ears. They're fitted and ready to go.

"Alright, I'm going to give you the safety brief so gather up," you're still on the bottom step so it gives you a significant height difference to them. Again, you're pleased with your advantage. "First, don't flag your battle buddy. If any of you points your weapon in the direction of a soldier I will personally kick you off the range and you'll answer to First Sergeant."

They nod, that's the oldest rule in the book.

"Second, see this red line?" you point at the thick line on the wall, about eight feet from the ground. "Do not point your weapon any higher than that line. If you do, the safeties will take it as a threat and jump you from twelve feet up."

They nod again. You finish the rest of the safety brief just as Quinn get's impatient, leaning over the railing above you to ask, "Who do we got, Pierce?"

You write their team number on your ledger, _3-2B,_ and copy _SGT Karofsky_ from the nametape on his vest.

"Second squad, bravo," you call up to her like she couldn't already figure it out.

"Huh," she leans casually against the railing, looking down at her soldiers like they're only mildly interesting. They bristle under her eyes and you almost smile at how effective her mind games can be. Karofsky looks anxious, you can see his hands fidget on his weapon. You have a bad feeling about him. Lopez, on the other hand, is much calmer than you would expect.

Seconds from going in, you thought she would be chomping at the bit, but she's taking this very seriously, speaking to Evans in a low tone. They seem to be going over their game plan and you're glad that at least someone seems to have a plan. Before you climb up the stairs you say, "Stack up right here. Two whistles to start, and remember, if you hear a whistle, stop and put your weapons on safe."

"Let's see what you got," Quinn calls down.

With one last glance over your shoulder you meet her eyes. Dark lenses or not, you know that she knows you're looking right at her. You feel it as the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, the shiver that runs up your spine despite the heat of the day, "Good luck."

You can see the smile in her eyes, a smile meant only for you.

By the time you make it to the top of the stairs, you've already cleared the image from your head. You have to be on point just as much as they do. You have to be ready to see a safety violation before it gets worse, before it has the chance to hurt someone. You have to be focused on what matters. Safety, safety matters. Safety first. You hate to admit it, but that girl is anything but safe.

"You ready for this train wreck?" Quinn grins at you as you make it to the top of the stairs.

"It's not going to be that bad," you smile, knowing that she's expecting Karofsky to fall short. You pick up your aid bag, an M9 tactical that you've had since your first deployment, and slip your arms through the straps, buckling it across the front of your vest. If something goes down, Flanagan is out with the field ambulance, but you're going to be first on the scene.

"It's going to be that bad," Quinn relents, bringing her whistle to her mouth.

"At least they only have blanks," you admit. While shooting blanks is much safer because there's no actual bullet, there's still a potential for something to go wrong with the muzzle flash.

Quinn gives the start signal and you peer over the edge to see what's going on. Watching Karofsky's team is like watching a tricycle. Two wheels are in prefect tandem, rolling along at an even and steady pace with each other. The third wheel, however, is much larger, and while he's in the lead, he's not quite pointed in the right direction.

"What is he doing?" Quinn asks after a moment, her hands tight around the railing of the catwalk.

"His own thing," you frown.

Karofsky's movements are choppy, blundering. He's nearly tripped Lopez twice and you're just happy that he's capable enough to keep his weapon pointed in a safe position. You cringe when he runs into his point man so fiercely that Evans is pushed into the silhouette of the doorway. It's a big mistake; he just gave away their position to the enemy in the room and potentially got himself shot by the time he pulled back behind the wall.

Quinn blows her whistle before they can take another step. They lower their weapons, and wait for further instructions. The soldiers are looking just as frustrated as their NCO, but they have the decency to try to keep it from showing on their faces. Lopez is glaring at the wall across from her with such intensity you're surprised that the plywood hasn't caught fire.

"Karofsky, you just killed Evans! You're a lumbering klutz that pushed him into a fatal funnel and he gave away your position. So now he's dead, you're probably dead too because now every terrorist and their mom knows where the hell you are!"

The sergeant flinches under Quinn's blunt accusation.

"You're not in sync with your team, Sergeant," you try to add something more constructive. "You're forcing it, now flowing with it."

He says something, muttered and under his breath. You know he did because Lopez is quick to shoot him a displeased look, the corners of her mouth tucked into a tight frown. Evans looks away, pretending he didn't hear anything and putting a half step of distance between himself and his sergeant.

Quinn is much too perceptive to let all of this go unnoticed. She leans threateningly over the railing, "You have something to say, Karofsky?"

He should know not to insult you in front of Quinn by now.

"I tripped," he points to the spot of wall behind him, "that's why I ran into Evans, it won't happen again."

Quinn stirs next to you, her foot sliding against the floor of the catwalk. You can feel her tensing in a way that's too familiar.

"Please don't—" you grab her elbow, "it's not safe."

She's up and over the railing before you can get a better grip on her elbow. She stoops, shimming her hands down the support beam until she can fit her fingers into the webbed grating of the catwalk. With her grip in place, and a devilish smirk in your direction, "Be right back.

You know she can't see your eye roll behind your sunglasses as she drops her feet. It's actually very impressive, lowering herself plus the weight of her gear, from the catwalk in such a controlled motion. Until she lets go and her boots fall to the floor, kicking up a small plume of dust in their wake.

She's so dramatic.

For a fleeting moment, you notice that Lopez had taken a step forward, as if to catch her Platoon Sergeant if she fell, you find it charming. As soon as she realizes that Quinn is not only safe, but on the warpath, she steps back and matches Karofsky's position against the wall. Quinn takes two steps forward, her arms crossing over her chest, coming within less than a foot from her soldier.

Karofsky's back presses against the wall behind him.

"Evans, Lopez," Quinn addresses the soldiers without looking away from Karofsky, "go back to the start point."

They scamper off quickly. Quinn might make a show of getting ready to yell at one of her NCOs, but she's realized that berating him in front of his soldiers isn't going to help matters at all.

"You got something to say, Karofsky?"

"No, Sergeant," he shakes his head.

You shift uncomfortably. You don't need Quinn coming to your rescue again. You can take care of yourself and while you'd rather avoid the confrontation and continue with the training, Quinn will never let something go. Especially when it comes to disrespect.

"You need to realize that the soldiers you lead are counting on you to keep them alive," Quinn is nearly growling, low and threatening, and you can barely hear it. "When you fuck up, even in training, they realize that you could have just killed them. They realize that you're incompetent. They realize that they can probably do your job better than you can."

Karofsky's face is so red, you almost feel bad for him.

"And every time you disrespect another NCO in front of them," she leans in a little closer, "they realize that every standard you hold them to is a sham. That you're a hypocrite. Is that how you want your soldiers to see you?"

"No, Sergeant," he mumbles, unable able to keep Quinn's eyes.

"Then how about you pull your head out of your ass, keep your mouth shut, and let's get on with the training?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

In a single tilt of her head she sends him moving towards the start point. As soon as he turns the corner she takes off in the opposite direction at a quick sprint. You're laughing to yourself because you know what she's doing. She wants to get around to the other staircase, up to the catwalk, and back to the start point before Karofsky gets the chance to yell at the others without her watching. Sooner than you thought, and barely taxed, she's jogging across the catwalk towards you.

"You're such a goof," you tell her as she passes, she throws you a smile but is quick to turn back to her game face as she leans over the railing to yell down at the team waiting along the other wall.

"You gonna do it right this time?"

You hear the chorus of 'yes, sergeants' and lean over your own rail to watch them come around the first corner. The whistle blows and you see them, Evans in the front, Karofsky still red faced in the middle, followed closely by Lopez. They're consciously trying to work together, you can tell it's not a second nature yet, but much better than their first run. Quinn is watching closely, probably closer that you. Evans is a good pointman, he sets a good pace and is confident when moving around the corners and going into rooms. There's no hesitation and you like it. Lopez is just as capable bringing up the rear, keeping up with her team without neglecting rear security. She's stronger than her frame seems capable of, her arms never waiver with her rifle and she's surefooted, always doing her very best to follow SGT Karofsky's lead, even if it's not much to work with.

He's trying, you guess.

They make it through the building with only one minor hiccup, nothing worth getting anyone killed over, even in practice.

"What do you think?" you ask Quinn.

"I still don't like him," she mutters, taking the clipboard from your hands and the pen from her sleeve pocket, "but I'm not going to hold that against Lopez and Evans."

"They would have done really well with someone a little more experienced."

You remember the way Lopez moved yesterday, when it was just the two of you, how receptive she was of your nonverbal cues. How open she was to your guidance, your movement, your... well, your body. She stepped in line with you like she had been doing it for years, and for a moment you felt like you were back with the infantry. Maybe that's why you felt like you could talk about it. Because even if she really doesn't understand what you were talking about, you were comfortable enough to give her a chance.

She get's under your skin. Half the time you feel like you say more to her without words than you do with them.

And she always talks back.

* * *

When the training is over, the sun is setting, and everyone is packing up to get home, you run into her at the porta-johns. Literally run into her because she was coming out of hers in a rush as you were walking around the corner of it, so she kind of steps out into your walkway and you run into her before you can stop. The bill of her cap hits your chin and your hand reaches out to steady you both, griping her waist for just a second before your realize where it is and draw back.

She steps away too, swearing and muttering an apology.

"You're fine," you assure her, "I was wasn't paying attention."

"Right," she ducks her head, fixing her cap and looking embarrassed.

"Good job," now that you have her attention, and a reason to talk to her, you feel like you want to use it, "in the shoot house, today."

She puts her hands behind her back, going to parade rest as soon as she realizes that you're going to speak more than two words to her, "I don't know, we kind of messed up the first run."

"You didn't mess that up," you shouldn't be putting the blame on her NCO, but you can't let her keep thinking that she had anything to do with that restart.

Her eyes study yours for a second, trying to figure out if you're being sincere. You quirk an eyebrow at her, asking, _would I lie to you? _She smiles at that, it's so subtle that you have to run your eyes over the corners of her mouth just to make sure it's there. Shifting her weight, catching your eye, she's suggesting something. You take a step and she falls into place next to you, walking away from the porta-johns and back towards the shoot house.

You're doing it again, the non-speaking talking.

Maybe you should actually start talking, so that people who see you walk by might think you're trying to teach her something instead of just walking with her to walk with her. With a breath for peace of mind, you say, "You and Evans were both really great, Sergeant Fabray was impressed."

"She said that?" the soldier asks it with nervous excitement that's actually really adorable. She realizes that it sounds a lot like she cares too much about impressing her platoon sergeant, so she looks away from you for a second before following up with, "I mean, she doesn't seem like the kind of sergeant to throw that stuff out there."

"She's not," you admit with a small smile, "and she didn't have to say it, I could tell."

"Yeah?" she glances over at you before looking at her boots making their way across the gravel.

"Totally," you like praising her, the small light in her eyes, the hint of a blush on her face.

"I wish everyone on our team was..." she licks her lips, struggling for the politically correct phrasing as she smirks, "as _impressive_."

You laugh, hearing the cocky undertone to her words. She fidgets with the bill of her cap, trying to hide the pleased smile inspired by your laughter. She likes making you laugh.

It's a red flag, a warning sign, danger ahead.

"Third Platoon got the best scores overall," you pull yourself back into the conversation. "You all had the most first time gos."

"That's probably because she went over tactical movement with us a few days before the range. We were out behind the company for hours," she says, "it seems totally worth it now."

"She knows what she's doing, you know," your tone is a teasing bit of warning.

"Sergeant Fabray is by far the best Platoon Sergeant in the company," Lopez glances around, challenging anyone to over hear her and tell her otherwise.

"I'll tell her you said that."

You nearly start laughing at the look on her face.

"I don't think," rubbing the back of her neck, Lopez squints thoughtfully, "she really needs to know all that."

You smile because she's too prideful to want people to know that she looks up to them, even if it's completely obvious. "Don't worry, she already knows."

She shrugs, touching her hat again to hide her blush. It doesn't work but it's cute that she tried. After a few more steps in silence, SPC Lopez comes to a stop. You almost hesitate to stop with her, confused about why she's stopping and what it means. You glance around, trying to figure out what's the problem. The heat at the tips of your ears is instant.

You're standing in front of the field ambulance, the boxy military vehicle with the red crosses and the litters in the back.

She walked you to your truck.

You look back over to her and the shine in her eyes; she's proud of herself. Nervous, excited, and basking in a moment that is so much more significant than it seems to be. But it means something, to her.

The flag in your head has turned into a billboard.

"Thank you," she takes a half step away from you, the toe of her boot skidding across the gravel, "for the training, it was great. I had a lot of fun."

"Yeah," you're voice isn't louder than a whisper, because all the things she isn't saying, the look in her eyes and the tip of her smile, they're saying more than anything else, "yeah, I'm glad you liked it."

She turns, keeping her eyes on yours until her head is forced to follow the rest of her body. Like your life depended on it, you turn to your truck to keep from watching her walk away, reminding yourself, safety first.

* * *

"Let me wear this."

"You know, it kinda defeats the purpose if you put it on before you ask," you laugh at Quinn through your mirror. She's shrugging on one of your hockey jerseys. It's a little long on her and you smile at the reminder that you're taller than her.

"Yeah, but it looks so good on me, how can you tell me no?" Quinn smirks as she looks over the items of your vanity. She spots a tube of mascara and plucks it from the counter top. "I love your hair curly."

You take the curling iron out of your hair and unplug it right away, because you don't want to forget, "Thanks."

"Are you excited for the game?"

You keep your eyes on yourself in the mirror, making sure your loose curls fall where you want them to. "Yeah, I guess."

"You guess?" she pauses with the mascara.

"This is going to be so awkward," you tell her under your breath. As much as you want to have fun, you're afraid of letting loose and risking the chance that they won't see you the same way afterward. It's not that you think they would lose respect for you, but you've always liked to act with a certain amount of professionalism. There's a difference between professional and friendly and friendly is a gray line that can mess up everything.

"I know," she agrees, "let's have some fun with it."

Her smile gives you some comfort, and together you finish getting ready, and climb into the back of your jeep. Driving is a perfect excuse for you to not drink. Less reason to act foolishly.

Under some convoluted sense of duty, Quinn has decided that we'll be driving to the game together. It's easier for you to afford the gas money then them and it's the perfect way to makes sure there won't be any sort of drinking and driving involved. You really don't think Lopez and Evans would do something that stupid, but it's one of those things that NCOs have to cover their asses about.

Even off post, even off duty, you're responsible for them.

"It could be worse, you know," Quinn tells you as you pull into the barracks parking lot.

"What do you mean?" you're not sure what she's talking about, you might have missed an entire conversation for the amount of attention you were paying her.

You're getting nervous, this is really happening, this trip to a hockey game with the soldier that makes your insides squirm in a way that feels too good.

"We could be going with that ass Puckerman or Karofsky," she rolls her eyes, thumbing through your iPod. "I swear, I could have put that idiot through a wall at that shoot house."

"I'm not his biggest fan either," you mumble.

"Will you lighten up?" Quinn nudges your shoulder and you try to keep from blushing. "These kids are fine, I think they're actually the two soldiers in the company that aren't going to judge you when you start a fight with a Canucks fan."

You really do start blushing at that, smiling despite your nerves at the memory, "I'm pretty sure he started it."

"Well you certainly finished it," Quinn smiles wider, seeing a break in your nerves, "and really, if you started another one, these two would probably jump in to help before I could."

You lick your lips, eyes watching the soldiers step out of the barracks doors and onto the sidewalk. They're talking to each other, Evans at Lopez's side with a large excited smile. She doesn't look nearly as excited, her eyes on the sidewalk in front of her. Maybe she's just as nervous as you are? Is Evans giving her his own pep talk?

"I'm just saying to give them a chance, Britt," Quinn spoke softer, as if they could hear her through the doors of the jeep. "I know you like to keep your work and your play separate, but they're harmless."

You don't think that's entirely true, but you nod, "You're right, I'm sorry."

"We're gonna kick ass tonight, right?" Quinn smirks, her excitement for the game obvious in her eyes. You wonder if the last time she's been to a real hockey game was the last time she was with you.

"Of course," you smile, feeling better about everything. "Quick, roll down the window and ask if Lopez needs help getting in."

Quinn doesn't even hesitate, she's leaning out her window and relaying your question with a smirk that makes you believe she's in on the joke. Lopez certainly thinks she is, the way her brows furrow and she offers a thin, "No, Sergeant, I got it."

Quinn pulls herself back into the window, laughing, "This is going to be so much fun."

"Play nice," you warn, knowing her capacity to tease.

You think Lopez is making it a point to be graceful as she climbs into the back of the jeep. Through the rear view mirror you can see that she pulls it off, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder and fastening her seat belt with a nearly defiant click. You're sure it was much easier in those flats and now that she's entirely sober. You wont admit it, but you kind of enjoyed seeing her drunk with the boys. It was cute how embarrassed she was, how she didn't want you thinking less of her and it was obvious.

"Good afternoon, Sergeants, I hope your weekend has been going well?" Evans is quick to get into his seat and smiling so warmly you think that he might not believe in awkwardness.

"No complaints," Quinn throws over her shoulder. "Now if we lose, you all will feel it Monday morning at PT."

Lopez and Evans share a glance, and you smile.

"Don't be mean," you swat at your friend, then hazard a glance into the back of the jeep.

It's fleeting, but your eyes wander from her face, following the fall of her hair against her shoulders, and then roam over her outfit. When you catch her eyes again you realize that she's been watching you the whole time. Her eyes are hesitant and searching. You get the feeling that she's once again searching for your approval.

You smile again, keeping your eyes on hers as you finishing your thought, "She's just playing around and I like your jersey."

Her eyes fall to her knees, she's pleased and trying not to show it, "Thanks, Evans got it for me."

"Can't go to a pro game without the colors," he nods next to her, "it's just not done."

You turn back to the steering wheel and decided that it's time to take off. The quicker you get to Nashville, the quicker you can focus on the game and not the solider behind you. Quinn is much better at making conversation then you, who is more occupied on traffic along 41A and getting on the highway. When you're not exactly familiar with people, you've always been more inclined to listen to a conversation than be a part of it. The things you can learn about people as they talk to others is endless, and usually they don't pick up on all the clues you are putting together because they don't even think you're paying attention.

"No, actually I came to Fort Campbell from Fort Stewart," Quinn tells Evans after he asked. "Hated it there, it was so hot, Fort Bragg wasn't any better, though."

"That's where you went to Airborne School, right?" Evans is sitting up in his chair, wide-eyed and waiting on Quinn's every word. It's so funny to you, how Lopez is sitting back in her seat causally pretending she's not as interested in her Platoon Sergeant's history as her friend.

"Yeah, it was a lot of fun, actually," Quinn shrugs. You try to keep from smiling because she called you the night before her first jump, she said it was because she wanted to catch up, but you know she was nervous as hell. You talked her up and made sure she realized how awesome she was before she stepped foot in that plane. The next message you got from her was a picture of the shiny new Airborne wings on her uniform and her large, beaming grin. You were pretty proud.

"What MP group is out at Fort Bragg?"

"16th MP Brigade," Quinn clicks through your music.

"Don't we technically fall under them?" Lopez pipes up.

"Yes," Quinn sends you an impressed look. "That's why we get no funding, because Fort Campbell says we belong to Fort Bragg and Fort Bragg forgets that we exist. Even our patches are the same except we're missing the Airborne tab now."

"How many times have you deployed, Sergeant?"

You can hear the hint of reservation in his voice, he's not sure if it's too personal.

"This deployment coming up will be my fourth," Quinn answers easily.

"How long have you been in?"

"Eight years."

"So... you've been deployed for half of your time in?" Lopez turns from the window. You know she's doing the math in her head and weighing those statistics against all the other NCOs that she's met.

"More than," you mumble.

Deployment is not a guarantee, and a lot of people are able to weasel their way out of it. You know for a fact that Quinn went looking for at least two of those deployments.

"I have nothing better to," she answers you just as quietly. She picks up her volume to say, "Will you stop driving like a grandma."

You're pretty sure she's been itching to pass the car in front of you for the past ten miles.

"I'm not driving like a grandma," you send her a playful frown, "I'm going five over already."

She makes this noise in response, like five over is a snail's pace and you just roll your eyes, she can be so impatient. You pass the car in front of you just to make her happy. You want to make a comment about her speeding habit, but it's not something you should do in front of the soldiers. Quinn needs to be an authority figure.

"The last thing I need is for some jerk to give me a ticket," you say with a small smirk, knowing full well that everyone else in the jeep is paid to give out tickets.

"Yeah, I never give people tickets if I don't have to," Evans scratches the back of his head.

"I went four years without writing a single traffic citation," Quinn laughs. "I've only given out two, and it was for speeding through a school zone outside a preschool. Lopez, you give tickets out like they're candy."

"I like to watching them try to justify themselves, or come up with excuses about why they're breaking the law," she shrugs, "when they have some dignity and admit that they were probably speeding, and don't give me the sob story, I usually let them off."

You smile at that, thinking that it's an odd sense of justice. While general opinion around the Army hates MPs, you've figured out that they're pretty hit or miss. When you find a good one, they're great. You get the feeling that the three MPs in your jeep are all examples of those rare policemen that don't take themselves too seriously, they're genuinely good people, and they're great soldiers.

When you got your orders to the MP company, you were dreading it. You got to the company and kept to yourself, not needing to get involved in their drama so close to deployment. Now, you feel like this whole assignment has been a blessing. You've been reunited with one of your best friends, you've found some motivated and willing soldiers, and you're starting to think that this deployment is going to be special for an entirely different reason.


	12. AR 600 Dash 20 4 Dash 4

AR 600-20, Chapter 4, Paragraph 4: Soldier Conduct.

* * *

You follow the sergeants Fabray and Pierce, who are following the usher guy, down the concrete steps in the arena. You know that the more steps you walk down, the closer you are to the rink, the more expensive the tickets are. The usher doesn't look like he's stopping anytime soon.

"Holy cow," SSG Pierce is the one that voices what everyone is thinking, "how much did the FRG spend on these tickets?"

"Why do you think I wanted them?" SFC Fabray tosses over her shoulder, her grin is wide and unashamed.

"This is awesome," Evans says from beside you.

He's just as excited as Fabray is and you're getting that same feeling. The arena is filling with all sorts of people, all in jerseys and team colors, college aged, middle aged, old guys with beer bellies and cups in their hands. The sight makes you lean over to your friend and whisper, "I want a beer."

He glances at the backs of the women in front of you and asks, "Are we allowed in front of them?"

"I don't know," you send him a thoughtful frown. "What's the rules about that kind of thing?"

He can only shrug, pointing towards the rink, "Check this out."

You follow his direction, and find the other members of your wayward party claiming a section of seats tucked away in the corner of the rink and so close that the only thing that's separating you from the ice is the thick plexiglass.

"That Schuester woman is not my favorite person in the world, but she sure knows how to treat a soldier," the medic looks impressed, a quiet excitement in her eyes.

"I've heard she's _treated_ a few soldiers in her time."

"Quinn," SSG Pierce tries to sound chastising, but fails so she ends up settling for hitting your Platoon Sergeant on the arm, "we're not supposed to say stuff like that in front of soldiers."

"Like they don't already know," she rolls her eyes and sinks into a seat, SSG Pierce claiming the one next to her.

You bite back a laugh, and the butterflies in your stomach when you realize that you're going to be sitting next to SSG Pierce. She's too wrapped up in her conversation with Fabray to really pay any mind to you and Evans sitting in the two other seats.

"I've never been this close to the glass before," Evans reaches out and touches the plexiglass, like he wants to make sure this is all real. You roll your eyes at him to mask how cool this is to you. Sure, you're not into hockey at all, but this is pretty sweet. The goal is so close you could probably count the number of knots in the webbing. "I had to brush up on my hockey stuff."

"What," you give him a shove and whisper, "will your man pride be hurt if a two bombshell blondes know more about a sport than you?"

He just grins at you, his big dopey grin.

"Don't worry about it," you admit a little louder, "I've never even been in a real hockey rink before."

"Really?"

You glance over to the medic on your left, feeling a little smaller under her stare, "No, I've never been to any sort of professional sports game."

She looks kind of surprised, "Huh."

"It's not like Ohio has a pro team worth seeing," SFC Fabray sends you a sideways smirk.

"There's _nothing_ worth seeing in Ohio," you add honestly. "That's exactly why I left it."

"It can't be all that bad," SSG Pierce quirks an eyebrow, "my family went to Cedar Point once. It was fun."

"You lived in Pennsylvania and you only went once?" That strikes you as odd, because everyone always makes such a big deal out of that amusement park.

"We're like," she holds up her hand, keeping her fingers flat together and her thumb tucked in line too, her wrist cants so that her pinky is parallel to the ground and points to the end of it, "right here on the east side of the state."

She's making a map of her state with her hand. It's the silliest thing you've ever seen.

"Oh my god," Fabray makes a swipe at her friend's hands, "you are not doing the dorky hand map thing."

"It totally makes sense though," she smiles, not finding it dorky at all, "look this is Pittsburgh, and the lake would be up here."

"Total sense," you agree, maybe a little teasingly, "I wish I could make hand map of Ohio."

"And I wish I had a drink," SFC Fabray decides, "Evans, let's get out of here before they come up with a secret handshake."

They shuffle out of the aisle and she's still studying you, trying to decide if you were making fun of her or not. You break under her stare, cracking a small grin that makes her cross her arms over her chest as if to hide her hands.

"The only way I could make Ohio is if maybe," you close your fist, pointing to the back of your hand, "I'd only be able to use the back of my hand. Ohio is kind of like a square, right? So..." you squint at your hand, trying to recall what it looks like on a map, "Toledo would be right here," you point to the knuckle of your ring finger and run your fingertip along an imaginary line, "and if you follow I-75 south you'll hit Lima."

A smile perks up on her face and she finds the same spot on her own hand, memorizing it, "Lima, Ohio."

You make Pennsylvania with your hand and point to, "Chester County."

Her eyes shift up to you and they're sparkling with a pleased surprise. She didn't think you would remember where she's from. She would be surprised as to how much you've memorized about her. How many seemingly useless comments have been committed to your stores of things to know about SSG Pierce, just in case.

She looks back at her hand, still shaped like Ohio and says, "You didn't like it there."

"I didn't have anything there to like," you feel kind of odd talking about it because you'd never feel comfortable asking her about her personal life. "The people sucked. Small town, small minds."

"Church on every block?" she guesses in a way that makes you think she knows what you're talking about.

"Yeah," you nod, frowning at the memory, "one high school and everyone was always in everybody's business."

"That's kinda how it was back in Pennsylvania," she tells you quietly, "of course, we only visited in the summer."

"Did you move around a lot," you hazard to ask because she gave you an opening, "because your parents were in the Air Force?"

"We moved every two or three years," she rolls her eyes and sends you a tired smile, "and if you want to talk about small minds, growing up on an air base is just as bad as you think it would be. Especially when you're not just some kid, you're _Colonel Pierce's_ kid."

"Was your dad that big of a deal?"

She snorts, amused with you, "Dad, no. It was my mom that was the big deal, but way to follow the stereotype, of course the man is the one with the better career."

You look at the ceiling, thoroughly ashamed of yourself. She has a nice laugh at you and nudges your arm with her elbow, "I'm teasing. Well, sort of, mom really was the big name."

You were about to ask what she did in the Air Force, but you're interrupted by the arrival of the rest of your party.

"Here," SFC Fabray hands SSG Pierce a plastic cup with a top and a straw.

"What's in it?" she asks, eying the pink smoothy like texture.

"Strawberries," your Platoon Sergeant answers simply. "You'll like it, next rounds on you."

She rolls her eyes, taking a tentative sip. You know she was asking about alcohol and while she's driving tonight, you're not, and apparently Evans is expecting you to take full advantage of that. You send him a curious look when he passes you a large beer.

He leans over and whispers, "Fabray bought them, she wouldn't even let me reach for my wallet so I think she's okay with us drinking."

"Cool with me," this will probably be your only drink tonight. She might have given her blessing, but the last thing you want to do is make a fool of yourself around the two sergeants you respect most in the company. The ones that you would do anything to get to respect you too.

The team flies out onto the ice and the crowd whoops and hollers. The sergeants next to you are among them. You smile along, not because you're excited about the team, but because it's awesome to see the smiles on their faces. It's so out of the norm for you, Fabray isn't scowling and SSG Pierce isn't keeping her smiles to herself. You expect that watching them will be almost as entertaining as the game. After the warmups and about half your beer, you're feeling more comfortable sitting there. You even laugh along as Evans sings the national anthem, and the staff sergeant next to you tries not to giggle too.

"Alright!" SFC Fabray stays on her feet when the game starts, slapping the glass and yelling, "Let's kick some ass!"

"Does she root for this team?" you ask the medic.

"No, we both like other teams, but if the Predators win, it puts our teams in a better spot for the playoffs," she explains, keeping her eyes on the game.

"Huh," you nod like you're very interested. You're not. Hockey is not what's important right now. What's important is that, for whatever reason, the world has blessed you with this moment, sitting next to her like you do this all the time.

A few rounds later, all of which SFC Fabray has supplied much to SSG Pierce's disapproval, you figure out that SFC Fabray is quite feisty. She's been hitting the plexiglass so much that you're sure her hands are numb.

"She's crazy," you mutter to yourself, SSG Pierce hears you.

"Sometimes I think she's only here to watch the fights," she whispers to you, her voice is low and conspiratorial and you love the sound of it in your ear.

"I bet she could beat the shit out of some of the guys around here," you match her tone, keeping the conversation between yourselves. She smirks, glancing at her friend then turning to you and nodding. It feels great, to have something that's only yours. Your own private discussions.

"Oh, she would," the smile on her face takes a turn for the devilish, "but me verses her? I win every time."

"No way," you scoff, leaning back to get a look at your Platoon Sergeant. There's no way the lanky medic could take your Platoon Sergeant.

"I'm level three combatives certified," she tells you. Your not sure if it's her deadpan tone or the fact that she's leaning over the armrest, her crossed knees bumping into your thigh, but you believe her when she says, "I could kill you with this cup."

She holds up the empty plastic cup, her eyes sparkling like she's waiting for you to let her try. You would. You would let her try anything on you. All she would have to do is ask and you would do it.

Anything.

"Are you out?"

SSG Pierce pulls back into her seat fully, looking up to the Platoon Sergeant in front of her. There's a beat where your heart stops because you're not sure if that was awkwardly forward or not and what SFC Fabray is saying with her eyes. SSG Pierce seems to get the message and holds out her cup, "Be quick about it."

SFC Fabray quirks an eyebrow, surprised but amused, and takes the cup, "Yes, _ma'am._"

The medic flinches like that title physically hurts her, "Don't call me that."

"Oh wait, that's your mother's name," she flips her short bob over her shoulder as she turns to walk away, she doesn't get far before she trips, barely catching herself on the edge of the rink. You're confused, thinking she might have had a little more beer than you thought, but then you see SSG Pierce's foot pull back.

She tripped SFC Fabray.

And SFC Fabray knows it.

Her eyes change from their wide pre-fall surprise to narrowed and threatening within a second. It reminds you of the way Drill Sergeants can flip from calm to crazy in a heartbeat and you almost expect her to start screaming, instead she takes a step forward, SSG Pierce is pushing to her feet. Fabray raises her hand—it's in a fist—and before you know it you're between them before they can close the distance.

"Hey, hey!" your forearm is pressed across SFC Fabray's collar bone, and your other hand is pushing SSG Pierce away at the stomach.

"Fucking trip me? Are you in the third grade?"

"And starting a fight is real classy," SSG Pierce's long arm makes it over your shoulder to reach out and tap her friend over the head.

"I'm going to kill—"

She's cut off by the buzzer blasting overhead. The Predators just scored and the crowd that hasn't already been screaming of a cat fight starts screaming. They pause long enough to look at the scoreboard and suddenly they're jumping up and down. You barely make it out from between them before they're half hugging, their free hands hitting the glass as they celebrate the goal.

You slump into your seat, completely confused. Your beer appears in front of you and you look over to Evans. Taking it from him you say, "Thanks for the help, asshole."

"You looked like you had it," he grins. "Besides, you're pretty brave to get between those two like they are right now."

"What do you mean?"

"All those fruity drinks she's been giving Pierce are spiked," he tells you in a low voice, to keep the sergeants from hearing. "She's probably had more than you have by now and Fabray always orders a shot when we're at the bar getting more. They're totally wasted."

You think it's hilarious until you remember, "How the fuck are we getting home?"

"I haven't been drinking, it's soda," he shrugs, pointing to his cup. "Fabray asked if that was alright, and I'm all for it. You and Sergeant Pierce were the ones that won the board, and personally I think Fabray needs a night to chill out."

You look back at the women standing in front of the ice, screaming at the passing players with smiles on their faces and fists pounding the glass. SSG Pierce throws her hair back and laughs at something SFC Fabray mutters when the Predators lose possession again. She wraps her arm around the shorter woman and draws her up into a hug. It's affectionate and warm in a way you've never seen from the medic before and she's whispering something into Fabray's hair that might be an apology.

This isn't SSG Pierce, this is just Brittany.

She's still whispering to your Platoon Sergeant when she looks over to you; her eyes shifting without moving her head, it's discreet, secretive. You're caught staring and she keeps your eyes, the corners crinkling up like she's found something she likes.

You can't believe that something might be you staring.

Finally she pushes her friend away, SFC Fabray looks startled for a moment, maybe even looking for round two, until the medic taps the crushed cup in her hands, saying, "You still owe me that drink."

"You want something?" Evans asks.

Downing the rest of your beer, you answer, "Yes."

He assumes you mean a drink.

* * *

You're mildly surprised, nearly amused when a flock of women skate out onto the ice. Some are toting shovels, others are working the crowd with other assets.

"Yeah!" SFC Fabray hollers. "Skanks on Ice!"

You sputter your drink all over yourself because your Platoon Sergeant is the funniest person in the world when you're buzzing.

"You're so embarrassing," SSG Pierce sinks in her seat, her knee brushing against yours.

Evans laughs, handing you a napkin from his nachos, "Here, you got some on your jersey."

"Where did you even find this thing?" you glance down at the Predators jersey, dabbing the beer from the front, not too noticeable. "I'm surprised that it fits so well."

Evans bought you the jersey, because he thinks it's important to wear team colors at sporting events. You could care less about all that, but you were surprised at how well it fit you; snug, not tight, and great with your jeans. Normally these things swallow your small frame in excess fabric and make you look frumpy.

You have to admit that even if you don't know the first thing about hockey, no one would notice because of how hot you look.

You feel great.

"Yeah, even the women's sizes were really big," he tugs on your sleeve, looking pleased with the result of his search, "I thought you would like something that complimented your figure, so I looked through the little boy's section. It was like, the perfect fit."

He's being completely serious, and it's actually really thoughtful, so you don't make a snide comment. If it was anyone else you would tell them that their gay is showing, but not Evans. He's too sweet for that.

SFC Fabray is still caught up on the skating women and totally unashamed of it, "I didn't know hockey had cheerleaders."

"They're the Predators' Ice Girls," SSG Pierce informs her friend quietly. "They clean the ice or whatever."

You glance over, discreetly enough for her not to notice you noticing her watching the women. A particularly busty brunette skates by your corner of the rink, right along the edge of the glass, waving to the fans in the seats. It might have been your imagination, but you swear that when she looks in your direction she gives SSG Pierce a private smile, she even starts skating backwards to let it linger before she moves on to the other side of the rink.

"How many Predator games have you gone to?" your Platoon Sergeant asks with a probing look.

It's not the question you want to ask, but you have no right to ask if the medic knows that woman and in what context. You swallow back all the ridiculous ideas running through your head and keep focused on eavesdropping.

"A few," she says offhandedly, swirling her straw around her drink, some sort of wild berry mix this time.

"Who do you go with?" if SFC Fabray realizes that she's putting her friend on the spot she doesn't seem to care, she even continues with, "because you have like, no friends at the company."

SSG Pierce, sinks lower in her chair, muttering, "Oh my god, really, Quinn?"

"Really what?" she looks perplexed, "I'm your only friend here."

"I haven't been at Campbell that much longer than you," SSG Pierce's ears have started to pink, "so it's not like... I don't know."

SFC Fabray looks a little regretful about how she just called out SSG Pierce as the wallflower she's been since coming to the unit.

You want to say something to put her at ease, leaning over slightly so she'll hear you, "I don't blame you, everyone at the company is a total ass and I wouldn't be caught dead talking to any of them," she looks up at you, blinking away her embarrassment and you add, "present company excluded, of course."

"Of course," SFC Fabray snorts, holding her cup out to you. You only hesitate a moment before tapping your own against it. SSG Pierce is so low in her seat she has to lift hers up to meet them in the middle.

She barely taps her cup to yours before bursting into a fit of giggles, mimicking Fabray's words in a haughty manner, _"But of course. Quite good, quite good._"

"You're drunk," SFC Fabray chuckles and SSG Pierce laughs harder.

"And it's your fault," she puts her hand on the armrest, on top of your wrist, and pulls herself into a sitting position.

You don't move, unsure if she realized what she's done, or if she would be embarrassed if you tried to pull your hand away for proprieties sake. You wouldn't be able to pull your hand away even if you wanted to. She's gripping your wrist and it feels like she has your entire existence at her fingertips; she could simultaneously make this the best day of your life and destroy all sense of positive control over your emotions. She is so powerful.

"You've been feeding me these ninja drinks! There's alcohol in these aren't there."

"_Isn't_ there," SFC Fabray corrects softly, "and yes, there's a shit load."

"How are we getting home?"

"Evans is sober."

You feel her hand tighten on your wrist and it's like she's holding your lungs because air can't seem to get into them. She shifts in her chair to see her friend a little better and her calf slips against yours. Jeans touching jeans and your on fire. The chilled hockey rink feels like a furnace. You can't hear the crowd around you, the music playing overhead, there's nothing more important than the leg against yours and the hand on your wrist.

Her voice pulls you back into the world, "My jeep, Quinn, _my _jeep."

"Have a little faith," SFC Fabray laughs, "it'll be fine."

SSG Pierce doesn't seem too convinced but she doesn't say anything else. She does let go of your wrist to rub her neck, a small flush creeping along the skin there. Soon, her hands are occupied with her cup, swirling the smoothy with her straw again as she watches the game.

* * *

"Shoot!"

You're screaming, literally screaming so hard that your voice will be hoarse tomorrow, but it's tied and you've never wanted a team to win more than you want this team to win right now and shit if they would only just—

"Shoot the fucking puck!"

That right there. She beat you to it, because she's always a step ahead of you, a world ahead. Experienced in more than anything Ohio could ever offer you, and some crappy years wasted in a junior college. She's so put together, even when she's yelling profanities that you've never heard fall from her lips, her hair a mess of golden curls, and she's just beautiful.

The buzzer sounds overhead and they've scored. You're screaming, she's laughing with the largest grin on her face, and throwing her arm around your shoulders. It's amazing. Celebrating the goal of a team you don't care about with a woman you absolutely adore. In this moment, pressed against her body and slapping the plexiglass with your palm, your life is literally perfect.

She shifts, passing close behind you and never quite breaking contact. She takes your sleeve in her hand and tugs, "Come on."

You don't need much more direction than that to get to take her lead out of the aisle. Your eyes follow the way she moves as she walks; the ends of her hair fluttering in the forward motion, her hips swaying with every step, her fingers tracing the handrails lightly. It's mesmerizing, just watching her move. You can see her subtle confidence, the way people move out of her way, they concede to her presence and you don't blame them. You would stop to watch her walk by too.

It would be silly to ask where she's taking you, she knows where she's going and that you'll follow. She stops at the end of a line outside one of the vendor booths, she points to the spot at the end of the line and you fall into place next to her.

"So, how'd you like the game so far?" she's looking at the large menu displayed on the board above the register and you take the opportunity to look at her. She's just as stunning in that jersey as she was the first time you saw her in one. You think back to that night, how she rescued your group on the side of the road. You wonder why she was in Nashville by herself, if she was really hear for shopping or if... maybe there was another reason she's been going to these games.

"It's pretty cool actually," you admit, shoving the thought aside to focus on the here and now. "That fight in the first period was probably the best part."

"You sound like Quinn," she smiles, and you feel like it's a compliment. If you could be anything like SFC Fabray that would be alright in your book. "Do you think it'll make a hockey fan out of you?"

You shrug, shoving your hands into your pockets, trying not to look too invested when you say, "Yeah, I could probably get into it."

If it gave you one more thing in common with her, you'd be into anything.

"That's awesome," she looks around and drops her voice, "just don't root for Nashville because I honestly can't stand them."

The man in front of you looks back at you with a gruff sound. You throw him a nasty look until he looks away and SSG Pierce giggles. She glances at the line again, then across the way to the bathrooms. She catches you watching and smirks, pointing her finger at you and simply says, "Stay."

Because you've been drinking, you give her a wry look through your eyelashes and say, "Yes, master."

She likes that response, her eyebrows quirk up and her smirk grows into a small grin. It makes your heart throb in your chest and your fists clench in your pockets. She takes a step away, throwing over her shoulder, "Good puppy."

You're pretty sure she gets a very good look at your blushing face before she gets lost in the small crowd of hockey fans. She's such a trip. You have no idea where you stand with her. How much of this is her being friendly because you're not at the company, you're not in uniform, or because you're both a little less than sober. Nothing you've said or done could possibly been taken out of context, nothing crosses that line, but you're getting closer to it. You feel it in the back of your head, the cloud over your shoulder. It's there and waiting to start raining on your parade.

You sigh and run your hand through your hair.

Soon, too soon, there's someone coming up behind you, a hand slipping onto your lower back and a voice in your ear, "I've seen a lot of Predator fans come 'n go but not many can pull off the colors like you can, darling."

Even though you would love for that flirtatiously husky voice to be SSG Pierce's, it's not. You squirm, turning to see the person standing much too close for comfort.

It's that brunette, the skater that had smiled at SSG Pierce from the ice. She's spangled in the Predator's colors and over her shoulder you can see more of the Ice Girls posing for pictures with random fans in the same uniforms. If you could call it a uniform; the low cut, midriff bearing tops with a skirt can't be very warm on the ice, but you don't think they're really meant to be functional. They're supposed to look like hot cheerleaders on ice, and that's fine with you. You're all for looking hot and making it work for you, and she certainly makes it work.

"Have you been to the rink before?" she looks you over closely, in that long drawn out once over that leaves little to the imagination. A warm flush spreads over your face and in your stomach. "I swear I'd have noticed you."

"First time, actually," you admit, ignoring the corny line and watching her eyes sparkle at the idea.

The way she's looking at you makes you feel like fresh meat and she's a lioness on the prowl. Or maybe a cougar, there are the smallest age lines wrinkling at the edges of her eyes. You find them oddly distinguishing. She has to be at least ten years older than you, but she's rocking that uniform, and that body, wrinkles or not.

"How'd you like a private tour," she sneaks her hand along your back until she's holding your hip, her other hand is playing with a curl of your hair, "I can get you into the empty suites upstairs, maybe we could catch the rest of the game?"

Your stomach twists, just the idea of sneaking off to join this stranger in some executive suite isn't pleasant at all. Sure, a few years ago you would have jumped at the chance, the thrill of it. You would have swooned at the feeling of someone giving you a compliment with that hungry look in her eyes. It would have made you feel sexy in a way you haven't felt in a while. Right now, however, all you want to do is make her go away. You don't want to be sneaking off anywhere, with anyone, not when SSG Pierce specifically told you to stay here. Not when SSG Pierce is counting on you to hold her spot in line.

"I—was told to stay."

It leaves your mouth before you can think of any other response and you can feel yourself flush under her confused look.

"To stay?" she looks around, probably looking for asshole that might have told you that. "Do you always do what other people tell you to do?"

You laugh, because that sums up your life pretty well, before you can say anything about it, there's a rough shuffle and the brunette hisses, releasing your waist instantly.

You turn around and nearly die. SSG Pierce is holding the woman's wrist in a tight grip at an uncomfortable angle. She doesn't hold it long, dropping the limb with a quick push back to the skater. They might not be speaking, or physically touching anymore, but the fire between them is palpable.

You're on edge very quickly. You've never seen that look on SSG Pierce's face, it's cold, her eyes slanted and her jaw set tightly. This skater is not someone the medic likes. You're trying to figure out why. Sure she was touching you, but why would SSG Pierce give a crap about that? Is she just looking out for a soldier? Did that warrant physically removing the woman's hand from her waist?

Why does this feel so personal?

"Brittany, I though that was you in the stands," she tosses her dark hair over her shoulder and smiles sweetly. It makes your skin crawl; the sickeningly sarcastic tone of her voice, the way she knows SSG Pierce's first name, how she probably recognized you from the pass she made on the ice. This _is _personal somehow. "I had expected you to come down and find me before the game, or at least after first period."

"I'm with company," SSG Pierce says shortly, in a clipped tone that sounds odd on her tongue.

"I saw," her eyes shift to you and she reaches towards you, maybe to touch your hair again.

SSG Pierce isn't having any of that. She puts one foot in front of you so she's mostly between you and the woman, pushing the hand away in a controlled manner, "Don't."

"Bringing another girl to our spot, sugar?" she fakes a pout. "Now why'd you go and do a thing like that? You sure know how to make a girl jealous."

SSG Pierce stiffens next to you. Her ears are positively flaming and you're not sure if it's from anger or embarrassment. This chick is putting on a show, one of those jealous acts of desparation people do when they realize that someone they liked has moved on and they're out of the picture.

Because if they can't have you, they'd like to ruin it for everyone else.

It's a bitter revelation because you certainly hate to imagine SSG Pierce with anyone that's not you, hot Nashville Ice Girl or not, it's not a great feeling. There is the amazing side note that, if you're reading all the signs right, SSG Pierce has at least been with a woman. You might be drunk, but this is pretty straight forward, right?

"Stacy," SSG Pierce says in a low voice, trying to keep from making a bigger scene. People are already starting to notice the tension and looking in your direction. "It's nice to see you again, but we really need to get back to our friends, so."

It's a clear dismissal.

"Is that the truth," she leans forward at her hips, in the way women do to be flirty and to give a flash of cleavage, "or are you just playin' hard to get?"

Jesus Christ.

The blood pounds in your ears. She's toying with SSG Pierce, trying to embarrass her on purpose—and with that fucking look, like she's thinking about all the things you've been _dreaming_ of doing with her.

"Aw shucks, look at you gettin' all shy," her slight southern accent is grating on your ears and you want to sock her in the mouth to get her to shut up. "That's not the Brittany _I know_."

That's that last straw for you.

"Look here," your voice is short, moving over so you can get a good look at her, "you need to back off. She's obviously moved onto better things, so you'd best walk away. Go shake your tits for all the rednecks up in this joint and maybe even skate in front of a damn Zamboni while you're at it."

It might not have been your best line, but it's enough to rattle SSG Pierce out of her embarrassed haze. She turns, placing her hand along your shoulders and guides you away. Again, you follow her lead, even when she drops her hand from your back you keep a steady pace with her. You expect to go back to your seats, but you pass the entrance into the arena that was marked with your seat numbers.

You follow her into a small alcove, blocked off from the normal flow of people by a closed merchandise stand. You start to get nervous now, because now you have to talk about it, now you have to be told to keep your mouth shut, now it's awkward. She stops a few feet further into the deserted hall than you, putting one hand on the wall and the other is pinching the space between her eyes. She takes a deep breath and you know she's trying to clear her head, find some way to make this right.

You wait, stuffing your hands in the back pockets of your jeans and chewing on your bottom lip.

"That never happened," she says finally, not opening her eyes and not even turning in your direction.

"Never happened," you parrot. She needs you to be a good, obedient, soldier.

"You didn't see any of that."

"Didn't see it," you confirm softly, scuffing your shoe in the floor, feeling senselessly dejected.

She has something against admitting that she might be interested in women. Or even has been interested, or had a fling with a woman once, or anything that might hint to that fact. That whole concept really just sucks for you because if she's not comfortable that you know about her possible sexual fluidity, would she be uncomfortable about your own?

"I'll forget it, but..." if she knows that you're okay with it, maybe she'll be okay with you, "it's not that big a deal."

"It is," her voice is soft but strained, like having this conversation is so uncomfortable that she's liable to have an aneurysm, "it is to me. That was personal and _embarrassing_, and it's not something you should know about me."

Your heart sinks, she's trying to shut you out. She doesn't think you're worth letting in. You'll always just be SPC Lopez to her. You're hurt in a way that you don't understand and you need for her to justify it, "Just because I'm a soldier? That's bullshit, NCOs flash their business to everyone all the time. Their divorces, how their wives are cheating on them, who's getting how many fucking DUIs. I'm not saying you have to shout it from the roof tops, of course it's personal, but it's hardly the most scandalous thing I've heard about a sergeant."

She looks up at you and you freeze under her stare. You said the wrong thing and you can't find it in yourself to regret it. You've never given her any back talk, or sass, or hint of an attitude. You're 'yes, sergeant' all the way, but not right now, not with this. She steps away from the wall and takes a step towards you.

You hate yourself for taking a step back.

You wanted to be strong and stand your ground but the smoldering look in her eyes, the way she embodies everything you've ever wanted to be in an NCO, the intimidating presence that just radiates off of her pushes you to the opposite wall of the hallway. She stops a foot from you, crossing her arms. You press back against the wall and the cold brick hits your forearms.

You don't think that's what causes the chill down your spine.

She watches you stand there, barely able to hold her eyes, and finally she says, "What's the first thing an NCO wants to do when they see a problem?"

You lick your lips, trying to figure out where she's going with this, "Fix it?"

"And what's the first thing a soldier wants to do?"

You have no idea, you shake your head slightly to let her know that you're not as smart as she gives you credit for.

She answers for you, "Ignore it."

You don't think that's a fair assessment, but work ethic can't be the point of this little lesson, "I don't get it."

She looks at you, her eyes sweeping your face briefly, "We're both picking up on each others problems."

Your face burns, and you think your stomach might have actually solidified it feels so heavy. She's calling you out. While, you're not sure if she means that she's picked up on your crush on her or just that you're gay in general, you know that it makes you feel so vulnerable in this moment.

Now, you completely understand what she was talking about when she said it was a big deal to her. You were being selfish when you wished that she would admit what happened openly, but now... you understand the sense of helplessness that comes along with someone in a position of power holding a piece of your private life. Even if she would never use something like that against you, it wouldn't stop other people from doing it.

Or doing it to her.

"Let's both be soldiers for a second," she tells you in a voice so soft it's barely a whisper, and most definitely regretful, "and ignore them."

If she acknowledges that you're gay, and that she's at least maybe dabbled with women, that changes things. She'll be forced to treat you differently, because she'll always know that there's a chance that you could get the wrong idea, that feelings might develop, that what's been stirring in your bones might actually manifest itself into some inappropriate action towards her... or vise versa.

Women are allowed certain comforts with each other. Within the hour she's hugged, and touched, and been friendly to SFC Fabray in a way that is normal between friends.

But if one of them was gay...

Things could be different.

If you want any sort of working relationship with her, you know what you have to say, "It never happened."


	13. AR 600 Dash 8 Dash 8

AR 600-8-8: The Total Army Sponsorship Program.

* * *

She's doing it on purpose.

You're almost positive.

She went two weeks without looking at you, she's barely spoken while you were in earshot, and now she's standing there in the lobby of the company with her hands in her pockets. There's no other NCOs passing through the area, you checked, so no one would bother correcting her. The messed up part is that she knows she's not allowed to have her hands in her pockets when she's wearing her uniform.

She knows that.

Quinn mentioned that she had been giving Karofsky more trouble than usual. Lopez has been lashing out and you're convinced it's your fault. What makes it all worse is that she didn't put her hands in her pockets until you walked in.

You walked in, those dark eyes flicked in your direction, and her hands disappeared.

She was so skittish around you for the first few weeks and now that she's finally able to look you in the eyes again, you're not sure if it's a good thing. Her eyes are so haunting when they watch you, waiting for your next move. There's something challenging there. She's waiting to see if you'll say anything to her, if you'll correct her.

She's testing the limits with you.

It's not fair. When you said it never happened, you meant it never happened. You've been treating her exactly the same as you did before the game, before she witnessed one of the most embarrassing moments of your life, and now she's playing this game with you. She wants you to be that bad guy. Maybe, on some level, she wants you to reestablish the boundaries between the two of you.

At least she's not running away from you anymore. The few times you caught her intentionally avoiding you in the hallways... you have to admit, it hurt your feelings.

This isn't much better. Stepping forward from the doorway you steel your nerve, balance the cups of coffee in your hands, and say, "Hands out of your pockets, Lopez."

Her face is unusually relaxed when it comes to you, her lips are still curled into a smile from her conversation with the other soldiers. There's a look in her eye that's a smirk away from being cocky.

You hate that it looks good on her.

She takes her hands out of her pockets and gives you a solid, "Yes, Sergeant."

The tone in her voice is nothing that could be taken out of context. It's respectful and there's nothing hidden in the syllables that should put a blush on your face, but it does. Your ears pink like her words were the match that set them on fire. The needles prickling on the back of your neck don't disappear until you're through the lobby and down the hall.

She had been watching you the entire time, you'd bet anything.

Quinn looks up from the paperwork on her desk when you walk in, smiling at the coffee you hold out.

"What's wrong?" she asks, studying your face carefully.

"Nothing," you shake your head, "I have a lot of stuff to finish before this first aid class and I'm behind the power curve with Flanagan at Air Assault School."

She nods and takes a sip of her coffee. Her desk is uncharacteristically cluttered with papers. You look over them with a quick eye; risk assessments, ammunition request forms, strip maps of training sites.

"Are those the pre-deployment lanes?"

"Yeah," she runs a hand through her blonde mess and sighs. "I'm drowning in paperwork here."

"Do you need any help?" you have a lot on your plate but you'd be more than willing to take some off hers.

"Nah," Quinn's never ready to take help right away, "that's what I have squad leaders for. It's about time these staff sergeants pull their weight around here."

You roll your eyes because she's making fun of you again, "I pull my weight just fine, thanks."

"I might sit in on your CLS class," she smirks at you, "just to make sure you still know what you're talking about."

That makes you scoff, a smile tugging on your face, "You should, you might learn something."

* * *

Something in your stomach twists when you hear the yelling. The sound itself isn't unusual, NCOs are always yelling at someone, if it's warranted or not, they're always yelling. You try to keep from doing that because it never seems to get anything done.

This is different because you're squeezed between two large storage shelves that are maintained for your medical equipment only, nearly hidden in the back of the large supply room in the basement. You were trying to make sure you have all the teaching aids you'll need for this first aid class and overhearing someone get chewed out was not in your plan.

It's weird because people shouldn't be getting yelled at in the back of a storage area. Not in that hushed tone that makes you think that they don't want to be overheard but still want to sound intimidating. Setting your supplies back on the shelf, you pick up your clipboard and shuffle to the end of the row of shelves. Stilling your breath, you listen.

"—you think you're smart, but Evans isn't always going to be there to back up the bullshit that you've been feeding Fabray."

"He didn't—"

"Watch it, Lopez, you mouth off one more time and I have everything I need to write you up for disrespect and not even Fabray will be able to save you from it."

"I wasn't lying—"

"The only thing I want to hear from you is, yes or no, Sergeant."

Your grip on the clipboard tightens. Karofsky's brought Lopez down into the basement to give her some one on one. That doesn't sit well with you. NCOs shouldn't take their soldiers to a godforsaken corner of the supply basement just to give them a talking to. That means that whatever they have to say can't be heard by anyone else and it's usually a red flag to some shady stuff. You're going to have to find out what's going on from Quinn.

There's a pause and you can just picture the smoldering look on her face.

You take a step out from the shelves, trying to figure out how to get to them in the maze of supplies. You don't like the edge to his voice, and you don't trust her to make a great response. You strain to hear and she doesn't say anything as you move down the row with gliding steps.

It's not your place to step in, but if he crosses the line... a formidably sized male NCO and a young female soldier with more attitude than she can handle... you don't like it.

"I said," Karofsky's voice is getting louder with each word, "do you understand?"

Whoever organized these shelves has been taking lessons from M.C. Escher because there's absolutely no sense to the rows and paths made by shelving units and wall lockers. You can't get to them soon enough for your comfort. The image is already weighing on your mind; him towering over her, fists clenched at his sides, her not backing down an inch. Lopez is the kind of girl that will stare down a grizzly. She'll put her pride before anything else and she's going to fall right into the trap he's set for her.

She still hasn't given him the answer he wants to hear. It's a battle of wills and either way, she's going to lose. You take in a breath, ready to yell out and announce your presence, but the unthinkable happens.

Lopez yields, "Yes, Sergeant."

You stop, frozen between an assortment of office supplies and a rack of billy clubs that hasn't been touched in twenty years. Something in the air changes and you realize that it's Lopez's pride being shoved into a hole in the ground.

Karofsky adds salt to the wound by laughing, deep and satisfied. It makes your skin crawl and your jaw tighten. They're on the other side of a large shelving unit and you can see him moving through a slit in the ill-fitting sheet metal that keeps items from falling off the back.

"That's more like it."

You feel disgusted by him. So very disgusted.

"Now, stay down here and finish organizing this shit for the supply sergeant, don't come up until you're done."

Lopez tries to keep whatever dignity she has left, "Yes, Sergeant."

You listen to his boots walk off. A moment later the door to the supply room swings shut with a loud crash. He's gone.

"God fucking damn it," her voice is muffled and almost positively spoken through her teeth.

You cringe, hoping that she wont figure out you're there. Things have been so awkward between you already, you don't need her to have one more reason to feel uneasy around you. It's obvious that she wouldn't want anyone to see him speak to her like that or for her to yield to him like that.

Or for her to cry like this.

Somehow you've gone from the middle of the aisle to leaning against the shelving unit and peering through the crack in the sheet metal, watching.

She's pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, slumped against a wall locker, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck."

Her curse words are quaking with a broken harshness that probably isn't nearly as venomous as she would like them to be. Your throat tightens, witnessing an odd display of weakness from one of the more hardheaded soldiers in the company. It's like realizing the man at the mall isn't Santa. She's torn, vulnerable, and unraveling in a way she wouldn't be if she knew you were watching.

She doesn't trust you like that.

This isn't for you.

The usual policy is to ignore others weakness. If Quinn buckles, and needs to walk off for a moment just to blink away a few frustrated tears, you look the other way and you both go about your business as if it never happened. It's the respectful thing to do, recognizing that even soldiers are human and can't be hard all the time. Lopez is hard in the way Quinn is. She wants the respect, she has the drive, and she crumbles the same way when her own pressure gets too much for her shoulders to bear.

It's polite to ignore it, you're not supposed to stop and watch.

Yet, you can't look away.

She's harshly brushing away the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Shaking her hands like she's trying to get feeling back in them. She steps away from the wall locker and lets out a long, still angry, breath. Her resolution hardens with her jaw and you can tell that she's getting her soldier face back on. She's ready to face everyone and all the expectations again.

Something inside you is proud that she was able to keep from taking the bait Karofsky was setting in front of her. He probably took her down here so she would feel threatened, lash out, and shoot herself in the foot. She didn't fall for it and you're actually very impressed.

"Such a fucking prick," Lopez grumbles to herself kicking the box of supplies she's supposed to be organizing.

The noise makes you jump, barely able to keep from knocking anything down. You take it as a sign that you need to get back to your own work, at least then if someone finds you in here, you can pretend that you were too involved with inventory to notice him yelling.

Doubtful.

* * *

Your pen hovers dumbly over your clipboard. There's a box to be checked, a list you're supposed to be finalizing, an inventory that needs to be completed—and your pen ignores all of it. You and your pen are helplessly distracted by the beautifully bitter words bouncing along the rows of shelves.

Lopez is singing.

It was a hope, a wish, a dream, that you would be able to hear it again. You're not sure when she started, maybe it started with a quiet hum, maybe with a mumble under her breath, but now she's singing outright and it's kept you from checking this block since you heard the first word.

"_You might be a rock 'n' roll addict prancing on the stage,  
You might have drugs at your command, women in a cage,_  
_You may be a business man or some high degree thief,  
They may call you Doctor or they may call you Chief,"_

She's fuming, you can hear it in her voice.

"_But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed  
You're gonna have to serve somebody,  
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord,  
But you're gonna have to serve somebody."_

The beat is slower, nearly lazy with the anger and acceptance of her situation. She's trying to brush off Karofsky as much as she's trying to remind herself that he might get just as much crap as she does, just from someone else.

"_You may be a construction worker working on a home,  
You may be living in a mansion or you might live in a dome,  
You might own guns and you might even own tanks,  
You might be somebody's landlord, you might even own banks."_

There's a rolling frustration in her voice, peppered with short huffs from moving the boxes that she was organizing. She's boiling, the aggravation from Karofsky—and maybe other things—seeping from her song. There's something in the sound that tugs at your heart strings.

"_But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed  
You're gonna have to serve somebody,  
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord,  
But you're gonna have to serve somebody."_

It's makes you itch for the opportunity to make her feel better. You want to weave through the shelves and hug her, pull her into you, and tell her that Karofsky isn't worth it. He doesn't deserve to be sung about.

He's not worth her tears.

You want to say all of those things, but all you can do is stay in your medical corner, stare at your clipboard, and listen. You're listening so hard that when your cellphone starts blasting it's ringer you jump about a foot off the ground, crashing into the shelf behind you, and sending a wave of supplies onto the floor.

"Shit," you whisper, even though there's no possible way that Lopez could have missed all of that racket. You've never been more ashamed of your ringtone. She's singing some sad soul tune and your world is filled with _The_ _Hamsterdance Song_ by Hampton the Hamster.

To top it all off, in your haste to silence your phone, you dropped your clipboard. It clatters to the ground in a gruelingly loud tumble that makes you flinch each time an edge hits the ground. When it finally falls flat against the floor, you take a few breaths to listen. The singing has stopped, not surprisingly.

You still have to answer your phone, "Hello?"

"_Hey, are you still in the basement?"_ Quinn asks you from the other end. Now that you have her attention you want to ask her about Karofsky and Lopez, but it's not the best time.

"Yeah, why?" you lick your lips, eyes searching for movement in the shelves around you.

She wouldn't come looking for whoever else was in the basement right? You shouldn't be embarrassed for being here, you have every right to be conducting an inventory in the supply room. Crouching down, you grab your clipboard as if to prove to yourself that you have a reason to be creeping in the shelves that doesn't include eavesdropping on a soldier singing.

"_Is Lopez down there?"_

"Um..." you hesitate, of course Quinn wouldn't let you off easily, "I think so, yeah?"

"_Karofsky told me she was doing a detail and I think that's bullshit because I didn't put anything out to be done,"_ she sounds annoyed.

"He left maybe fifteen minutes ago," you set your clipboard down and start re-stacking everything that had fallen off the shelf. "He didn't have anything nice to say."

She scoffs at that, _"I'm not surprised, will you tell her to drop whatever Karofsky made up for her and get back to the platoon office?"_

You're straightening the supplies on the shelves needlessly, trying and failing to think of an excuse to keep from talking to the soldier, "Yeah, sure."

"_Thanks, Britt,"_ Quinn disconnects the call and you slip your phone back into your pocket.

With your mission in mind you slip out of the nook you've been creeping in. Going left didn't help you out last time; you hadn't been able to make it to wherever Karofsky had her cornered, so you decide to go right, hoping you'll find a shorter route. You do, finding a small space to squeeze yourself through to get to the other side of the row.

You have to consciously tell yourself not to hold your clipboard like a shield, because NCOs shouldn't be nervous around soldiers. She shouldn't intimidate you in any way. She shouldn't get under your skin. She should make you feel like you're doing something wrong just by looking at her.

But she does.

Lopez is waiting for you to come around the corner. Her eyes are dark, cautious, and just barely still puffy from crying. She's taken off her uniform jacket. The sleeves of her tan tee shirt are wrapped snugly around her upper arms, the box of printer paper poised in her hands, coiling the muscles there.

You try not to notice.

With a huff, she heaves the box onto the large stack. It's obvious that Karofsky has asked her to take all the boxes of paper from one shelf and put them onto the shelf across the aisle. It's tediously useless work and she shouldn't have to do it.

"What can I do for you, Sergeant?"

It's a crass question, delivered in the soft voice she uses when she talks to you. She's on edge because she knows you were listening to her singing. She has that self-conscious light to her eyes again and you feel it's because she wouldn't want you to overhear her get chewed out by Karofsky. You look down at your clipboard, as if it holds the answer to her question. There are plenty of things you could say to her question.

_Can you stop looking at me like this is all my fault?_

_Can you stop making me feel like the bad guy?_

_Can you stop being so..._

She brushes the back of her hand across her forehead where the barest layer of sweat as gathered. Her other hand rests against her cocked hip and she looks at you, waiting. She's a red flag and you feel like a bull. You can't help but be drawn to her. You can't keep away even if you know she's danger. She eyes the clipboard in your hand like it might be more work for her to do so you drop it to your side so she wont think that anymore.

You should just give her Quinn's message and move on with your life, but instead you drop your eyes to the tiles and offhandedly mention, "That song..."

That's not what she was expecting, her eyes narrow like you might have insulted her... or maybe the singer. Lopez says, "_Gotta Serve Somebody_. Bob Dylan did it first, Etta James did it better."

You nod like you know—you had no idea. You want to say you liked it but that would be kind of misplaced, you don't like that she's singing that song because she's angry about her life. If you could tell her that she's a very lovely singer, you would, but you're scared that it would be too personal a compliment.

"I'd like to catch you singing a happy song," you tell her quietly, "just once."

She stares at you with her hands on her hips instead of behind her back. Its a small act of defiance and a part of you thinks that it probably makes her feel better, so you don't correct her. When she finally finds her voice she surprises you with her bluntness, "I don't have much to be happy about right now."

That's such a broad statement and yet... you take it personally because you haven't seen her smile honestly since the beginning of the hockey game. She has a really pretty smile when she means it. Then you had to go and ruin it by freaking out like that. It's so obvious that she took your refusal to acknowledge your... _familiarity_ with Stacy as an insult. That somehow you were condemning her into the same shamefulness that was making your bones shake that night.

"Sergeant Fabray needs you in your platoon office," you need to get back to business before you forget why you are even here. When she looks at the rest of the boxes you continue with, "She said to not worry about Karofsky's detail."

There's a moment of hesitation, where she's weighs the odds between Karofsky and Quinn. She reaches for her uniform jacket and you're glad that she knows to trust Quinn. You look away as she throws it on because it's odd to watch.

Lost in the shelves, hastily getting dresses, just the two of you.

The sound of her zipper moving along the tracks of her jacket sends a matching wave of shivers up your spine. She smooths the material down; you notice that the uniform only hints at her figure and it's a shame—for you. A different part of you is glad because other people don't need to be noticing her figure.

She takes her patrol cap from a shelf, sending you one last look; an opening that's near pleading for something more to this conversation, some aspect of familiarity, something to hint towards the idea that she might mean more to you than just another soldier.

You look down to your clipboard and jot down a scribble in the corner. She takes it as a dismissal and your stomach twists.

Turning on her heel and she gives you a courtesy that you don't deserve, "Have a good day, Sergeant."

You watch her disappear through the shelves, your heart sinking with each step. Your eyes snap shut with the sound of the door. You pause like that for just a moment to remind yourself that this is what has to happen. Taking in a deep breath, you shake it off, pull your military bearing and glance down at the small note you left yourself.

_Etta James, Serve Somebody._

* * *

"The duck's in the damn hat, B."

You feel Quinn shift next to you, she's agitated and restless and you're not sure if it's from how little sleep she's been having or the papers in her hands.

The assigned new additions to your platoons are a disappointing at first glance. You had been hoping for experience, someone you didn't have to start from scratch with. The people you're picking up are so new that they don't even have unit patches, all of their uniforms are fresh, their boots not even truly broken in.

"I can't believe this," Quinn grumbles, keeping her voice low so that the other people picking up new soldiers wont hear, the reception office is packed. "We're only a few months from deploying and they want to send us two slick sleeves?"

Quinn's Platoon Leader, the lieutenant that's supposed to help her accomplish the mountains of tasks that go along with being a Platoon Sergeant, is coming to Fort Campbell straight out of Officer Candidate School. The thin vertical gold bar on her chest pronouncing her the Commissioned Officer that she is, she probably pinned on that rank no more than a week ago.

It's hard for Quinn to realize this. She's been struggling to keep up with the platoon's workload by herself, and really needs some help, but now it looks like she's going to have to teach a new lieutenant the ropes on top of everything.

The duck really is in the hat.

The relationship between Platoon Sergeant and Platoon Leader is one of the most important in the company. They are literally the glue between the highers and the soldiers. Everything comes through them, and while Quinn is supposed to be more hands on with the soldiers, the Platoon Leaders is supposed to enable her that freedom by taking care of the administrative tasks and dealings. Quinn's been chained to her desk since she got to the unit and you were hoping that would change soon.

"At least yours isn't a child," you mumble, looking at your paperwork to double check. Yep. The newest company medic turned eighteen about six months ago.

"Yeah, that sucks," Quinn admits grudgingly.

From an NCO standpoint it does suck. When your soldiers are under twenty-one there's always a worry in your head that they'll get caught drinking underage. That's a lot of trouble and a whole lot of paperwork.

"But your new private is on the bottom of the totem pole and she knows it," Quinn argues, "she's not _entitled_."

"You don't know she's going to act like that."

Quinn makes a disgruntled noise. You can practically feel her attitude, you don't have to see the way her arms are crossed or the hard look in her eyes to know she's not happy. You're trying to keep it from getting to you, the last thing you want is to come off like a grump to your new soldier.

"Alright, enough stalling," Quinn straightens up as she sees the new Platoon Leader turn in the last of her reception paperwork. She runs her hand through her bob and says, "Ma'am?"

The lieutenant (LT) blinks over to her, startled and with the nervous air of being in a room of people and not knowing a single one of them. There's a flighty look in her eyes, both anxious and excited. She meets Quinn's eyes but stalls, waiting for Quinn to speak again.

"Ma'am, I'm Sergeant Fabray," Quinn steps towards the lieutenant and you wish she wasn't so intimidating at times. The small woman, a petite brunette, barely stands her ground. "Captain Schuester was supposed to be in contact with you about me taking you to the company?"

"Oh yes, hello, I'm Lieutenant Rachel Berry," she smiles, adjusting her grip on the organizational binder in her hands to shake the one Quinn offered her. "Yes, Captain Schuester did mention that you would be picking me up."

"This is Sergeant Pierce, she's the company's senior medic," Quinn gestures to you. You smile kindly as you shake her hand, her grip is soft and not really a grip at all, she merely places her hand in yours. It's not a good sign, it's passive and lacks confidence, Quinn's going to eat her alive.

Quinn won't have a weakness in her platoon.

"It's lovely to meet you both," she sounds genuine but her voice waivers under Quinn's stare.

There's a tense moment where Quinn's too busy sizing her up to say anything friendly so you say, "You'll be leading Third Platoon with Sergeant Fabray."

Your slight emphasis in the word _with_ doesn't go unnoticed by Quinn, who glances at you before saying, "We'll go over all the logistics at the company, but first, this is for you."

Quinn pulls out a unit patch from her pocket and hands it to the lieutenant. She takes it, her eyes roaming over the embroidered symbols; a star over a globe on a black background. She tries to put it on the velcro patch on her shoulder pocket, but it's difficult with one hand since she's still holding her binder. Quinn isn't having any of it.

"Here," she takes it out of the shorter woman's hand. You watch LT Berry draw her hand back and freeze awkwardly, unsure of where she went wrong but ready to allow Quinn to correct it. "Let me make sure it's straight. I want you to make a good impression when we get to the company."

You feel her worry double as Quinn smooths the patch onto her shoulder pocket, "Um, is there anything else I can do, to make a good impression, I mean."

This is Quinn's biggest worry, she's been able to get a good hold on the soldiers of her platoon, making sure that they realize that she's the authority in the platoon, even if she's new and relatively young for her rank, she needs them to believe that she knows what she's doing and that they're in good hands. She's been able to pull it off and you've seen small displays of the confidence they have in her. She needs Lieutenant Berry to inspire the same kind of confidence, they need to be seen as a unit of leadership, the head of the platoon.

If one of them is seen as incompetent, too new, too inexperienced, then they both suffer.

"What I need from you is," Quinn keeps her eyes, "for you to be... situationally aware."

"Of what exactly?" she looks to Quinn, then you, hoping for direction.

"A lot of things are going to happen in the next couple of days while you get used to the company," Quinn explains quietly, with a serious voice. "I'm going to be there to answer all of your questions, and I'm going to make sure that if there's something you need to know, you learn it."

That's a threat as much as it is a comfort.

"If you have any questions," you point to Quinn, "Sergeant Fabray will take care of you. She's the best Platoon Sergeant in the company."

"You just need to be careful as to where and when you ask those questions," Quinn adds. She's going to come out and say it, you've never known her to beat around the bush. You're going to try to soften the blow.

"You're like, fresh out of the box and your bar is still shiny," you point to the rank on her chest; the golden bar for a Second Lieutenant, when she gets promoted she'll replace it with a black bar, "people are going to second guess you because of that."

She looks between the two of you, her eyes finding the patches on your shoulders, the pins on Quinn's chest. She wore both today and you know it's because she wanted to intimidate and impress her new Platoon Leader. You don't think she needed to for this woman, she's watching Quinn with a deer like expression, but as LT Berry nods her understanding, you catch something behind her eyes and you feel that she's up for the challenge.

"I will try to keep from making my inexperience too glaring," she tells Quinn in a firmer voice.

"It won't last," Quinn tells her almost reassuringly.

"I'm going to grab my soldier," you tell them before another discussion can kick off.

Quinn nods at you, "We'll be at the jeep."

Most of the people have already cleared out of the room as their sponsors have grabbed them. Your soldier is still sitting in one of the plastic chairs, her paperwork had been turned in a while ago, but your conversation with Quinn's new Platoon Leader was more important. Sometimes Quinn needs a little help to keep from being too overbearing when she's annoyed and threatened.

"Private Motta?"

She looks up at you, the pink bubble of gum bursting in her surprise.

"Um, good morning Sergeant," she says and, almost as an afterthought, she raises to stand at parade rest.

"I'm Staff Sergeant Pierce," you hold out your hand, "senior medic at your new unit."

She takes your hand; her nails are too long, against regulation, and they match the makeup on her face. Something about it bothers you. She pops her gum and you try to keep from cringing.

"It's an MP unit, right Sergeant?" she looks weary of the idea, her nose scrunching slightly.

"Yeah, but they're not all bad," you smile and pretend it's true.

"Are there any other medics?"

"One more," you nod. "He's a specialist and in Air Assault School right now, so he won't be at the company when we get there. You'll meet him eventually."

"So um," she tilts on her hips, "what does a medic do at an MP company?"

"We take care of the MPs," you break it down and wave for her to follow you towards the door. "Pull medical coverage for their training, just in case someone gets hurt. We track the people on medical profile, we teach fist aid, and when we deploy we'll run mission with our platoons."

She takes you to her duffel bags piled near the exit and you help to carry them out into the parking lot, spotting Quinn and LT Berry standing near the back bumper. You're not surprised that her stuff is already piled in the back.

"You'll be assigned to Second Platoon," you smile when Quinn comes out to take one of the bags from your arms, tossing it in the back, "Flanagan is on First and I'm on Third Platoon."

"Because Third is the best," Quinn deadpans, catching LT Berry's eye.

"Truth," you agree for fun.

Private (PVT) Motta's eyes dart around you all, intimidated by the rank around her. As soon as your hands are free, you catch LT Berry's eyes and give her a salute and a smile, "Ma'am."

"Sergeant," she nods at you, returning your salute and you're glad to notice that PVT Motta followed your lead to greet the officer properly. LT Berry's eyes are kind, she's grateful for your presence, hopefully Quinn hadn't been too scary when you were gone.

"Alright," throwing up the tailgate, you wave to the jeep, "let's get out of here."

The rest of the day is all about your new soldier, Quinn and LT Berry disappear to their platoon office, you distinctly hear your friend tell her, "Game face, ma'am."

You catch a glimpse of her hardened expression as they walked away. PVT Motta isn't nearly as mentally prepared for this, her eyes are wide and looking around the company hallways like she's entered some sort of mystical new land. A few people you pass give her a once over because she's obviously new, you hope that's the only reason.

"Good morning, Sergeant," SPC Evans greets you as you walk closer.

Next to him SPC Lopez is leaning casually against the wall, her knee bent and her foot on the bricks behind her. Her eyes are narrowed, arms crossed, a small crease between her brows. She's displeased. Her expression guarded and judgmental as she looks over your new medic. You feel the tension and you know that look; it's the kind women give each other in the first five seconds of meeting, when they decide that they hate each other for no reason.

You've never understood that. You don't give women that look. You wish she wasn't giving it to Motta.

"Your foot misses the floor," you catch Lopez's attention as you step closer, "you should reunite them."

She drops her foot from the wall, the sour expression on her face dropping with it, replaced by a ghost of the kicked puppy expression that she's been sporting around you ever since the supply room incident. She crosses her leg over the other, still leaning, but... now you feel like she's waiting for something, because while she took her foot off the wall, she knows she shouldn't be leaning against it either. It's a challenge and you're going to take the bait.

"Come here," you say before you can think better of it. "Let me give you a break from holding that wall up."

She shares an amused look with Evans before pushing herself off the wall, taking the three steps to meet you in the middle of the hallway. Putting her hands behind her back, she falls into a sturdier form of parade rest then PVT Motta had showed you.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

The words are very level, her eyes earnest. She wants to help and maybe to prove something to Motta. You're hoping that this is a sign that she's moved past being awkward around you. The kicked puppy look has been really made it hard to walk around the company and you've started staying in your office more to avoid it.

"Do me a favor and find Cohen-Chang from Second Platoon," you have to turn because you're still kind of walking, although slowly, down the hallway, "bring her to my office, alright?"

She nods, watching PVT Motta as she passes by. Motta uneasily scuttles a little closer to you. You send Lopez a look, and she turns away with an embarrassed expression, stomping off to complete her mission. You trust her to take care of the task without trouble.

You're in the medic's office, showing Motta around when Lopez returns. She doesn't enter your office, only stands back while SPC Cohen-Chang walks through the door, as if to make absolutely sure that the person she was charged to summon made it to you.

She catches your eye and you smile softly, "Thank you, Specialist Lopez."

"You're welcome," she nods once and turns to walk off, "Sergeant Pierce."

As soon as she's out of sight you focus on the new addition to your office. You like Choen-Chang; she plays by the rules, she's a hard worker, and is just as good at not drawing attention to herself as you are. You've rarely seen her in trouble. She'll be a good influence on Motta.

"You needed me, Sergeant?"

"Yes," you grin to keep her from thinking she's in trouble, "I'd like you to meet our new medic, Private Motta."

You introduce them, explaining that Motta will be the medic assigned to Second Platoon and you'd like it if Choen-Chang will show her around the company. She takes her task with an enthusiastic nod, "Come on, I'll give you the tour."

"Alright," PVT Motta seems to be more comfortable in her company than in yours, new soldiers are always particular about rank like that.

You sigh, rank makes everything so complicated.

* * *

The loud rumble outside your house makes you perk up, recognizing Quinn's motorcycle. You had been wondering when she would be home and it's not long before she's walking through the front door, placing her helmet on top of the shoe rack.

"Hey," she grins at you from across the living room. The ends of her hair are feathered from the wind and she there's a light in her eyes that she only gets after she's been on her motorcycle. "It's about time you're up."

"I needed to catch up," you shrug, unashamed of still being in your pajamas, an empty bowl of cereal on the coffee table. "How was your ride?"

"Like a dream," she slips out of her riding jacket and throws it over the arm of the couch before sinking in next to you, a stack of mail in her hands and her eyes on the National Geographic program playing on the television. "What are you watching?"

"Taboo," you take the mail and sort it, pausing on a small envelope that falls from the pages of a magazine.

It's hand addressed to Quinn in a very neat, but bubbly, script. You get a glimpse of the return address—_Beth Corcoran_—before she snatches it from your hand. The envelope is studied, scrutinized, and you feel like she's trying to convince herself that it's actually in her hands. You're surprised that she hasn't scampered off to her room yet, instead she puts her riding boots on the coffee table and says, "I never liked this show."

"It can be kind of creepy," you admit, still watching her.

Her finger runs along the handwriting, then the square of the stamp, the show goes to a commercial break before the paper rips carefully. You watch the adds because you know that while she needs your implied support by being in the same room, she doesn't need you to be watching her read a letter from her daughter.

It was a hot day in Afghanistan when you learned about Beth. When you finally mustered up the courage to ask Quinn who wrote the letter she read every night, kept tucked into her patrol cap, and cried about when she got another just like it. In a rare moment of solitude in the designated smoking area, a bench under a canvas sheet for shade, you listened while she smoked nearly and entire back of Marlboro Menthol Lights and talked about something she hadn't talked about since she joined the military.

"She wants to visit."

You look over to Quinn, "She wants to come here? To Kentucky?"

"Yeah," Quinn is quiet, barely breathing, "before we deploy. For maybe a week, or whatever time I can spare."

"That's good right?" you watch her carefully as she looks over the letter again.

"I think so," she licks her lips. She's nervous, anxious at the possibilities. "I've only ever visited her and Shelby up in New York."

You've only heard short snippets from those visits, and really no more than that they happened. Sometimes, when Quinn's in the mood, or drunk, she'll tell you about how Beth has been playing soccer and never gives her adoptive mom any trouble because she's the best little girl anyone could ever ask for.

"I mean, you have the time," you want this to happen for Quinn's sake. "You have a place; I'll make myself scarce, you can move into the master bedroom and she can stay up in the guestroom."

She glances over to you for the first time, "Britt, you don't have to do that."

"I want to," you press, "besides, it's not like you're not paying rent, this is your house too now."

Her eyes fall back to the letter and she ponders for only a second more, "I'll have to call Shelby."

"Here's your phone," you pick it up from the end table and hand it to her. "I'd appreciate if you take it with you next time you go out on that thing."

Taking the phone, she catches your subtle worry, "Sure thing, Britt."

A phone call, and hour, and nearly an entire notebook full of rejected attempts, Quinn is sealing a reply to Beth's letter in an envelope and digging around your kitchen drawers for a stamp. You know you have some in there somewhere.

"Wont Shelby tell her that she can come?" you ask from the couch.

The distance gives you both a cushion for the touchy subject and Quinn calls back, "No, letters are kind of our thing."

"Why?" you blink. "Doesn't that feel really distant, like with webcams and cell phones and stuff?"

"We're not—" she hesitates, "I'm not ready for anything that's not distant. It's not the right time."

You curl your legs up under your legs and realize that you know exactly what she's talking about. She might be thinking of the daughter she gave up for adoption, but you're thinking of the soldier you need to keep at a professional distance, because you're not sure there will ever be a right time.


	14. SMCT SL1 0004

Solider Common Task, Skill Level 1, 071-100-0004: Maintain an M4 Carbine.

* * *

"Ma'am, you'll be riding in this truck to the training site."

"Can I drive it?"

"No, you can't drive it."

You were programming your truck's radio when you first heard their voices. In the dim lights of the parking lot, it's too early for the sun, you glance up to see your Platoon Sergeant and Leader standing just next to the hood of your Humvee.

That LT Berry sure is something. A lot of people were put off by getting a butter bar so close to deployment and sometimes you can see what they're talking about, but you could really care less. SFC Fabray did such a good job taking care of everyone before Berry showed up that you're certain she's going to be able to keep the officer from messing anything up.

"Why not?"

"Because lieutenants don't drive, soldiers drive," SFC Fabray crosses her arms over her chest, she's trying really hard to some patience with her. "Now, let's drop your gear and finish up here so we can get this show on the road, I don't want to miss our step off time. Hell, if we can take off early that would be amazing."

"What's the rush? We're going to be out there all day anyway," LT Berry opens the passenger's door and sets her combat vest and helmet on the seat. She notices you for the first time and gives you a small smile, "Good morning."

"Good morning, ma'am," you go back to finish programming the radio and she continues her conversation with your Platoon Sergeant, who's throwing the assault pack she's been carrying into the back seat. You assume it belongs the lieutenant.

"Because if we have the capability to finish this training early, so that these soldiers can get back to their families tonight, instead of tomorrow morning," SFC Fabray says shortly, "why _wouldn't_ we want to make that happen?"

Her words are emphasized by slamming the door of the Humvee and LT Berry isn't the only one that flinches, you might have jumped too.

"I suppose you're right," she shuffles, glancing at her watch. "We should probably start rounding everyone up for the weapons count."

"What else do we have to get accountability of before we roll out?" SFC Fabray asks and you can tell that she's not asking because she doesn't know, she's asking to make sure LT Berry knows.

"Weapons, personnel, and all other sensitive items," LT Berry tells her quietly, but you can hear the nearly clipped tone in her voice. She knows why she's being questioned but is annoyed by it. "Our hand held radios, for example. I have a complete list in my notebook with spaces to annotate our pre-mission numbers."

You can't see her face, but you hear your Platoon Sergeant say, "Then let's make it happen. I'll meet you at the head of the line, ma'am, I want to check a few of these trucks first."

"Alright," she fishes her notebook out of her back pocket and turns towards the front of the row of trucks.

You're just about finished with your radio preparation, you even have the handset poised to make a commo check when your door opens. You hope the way you jumped wasn't too obvious. SFC Fabray is standing there, looming over you with one hand on the door and the other on the shoulder of your seat.

"Lopez."

"Good morning, Sergeant," you start carefully by giving her the mandatory greeting of the day. You have no idea what she wants. "Did you need something?"

"I didn't get to talk to you the other day because I was called into First Sergeant's meeting, but why is Karofsky accusing you of stealing supplies from the supply room?"

Just mentioning that stupid accusation makes you lose your tongue, "Because he hates me."

She snorts at that, "Evans backed up your story perfectly before he even knew what was going on, so I don't believe Karofsky for a second. I would, however, like to know why he has it out for you."

"I have no fucking idea. Look, Sergeant, he doesn't make any sense," you say evenly. "He accused me of stealing one of the new nine mil holsters the company ordered for deployment—the holsters that we're all going to get assigned _anyway_—so if he really thought I stole that shit, it was pretty stupid of him to make me do corrective training in the supply room."

"I'm not saying it was very smart," she tells you, shifting so she's not standing so close.

"Stealing a holster," you're on a tangent now, "or the stupid detail he made me do?"

She licks her lips, trying to hide a smile and refusing to answer your question, "It's not like whoever stole it could ever wear it around to company. So I don't know why they would want it."

"A bunch of the guys have their own guns," you shrug, "or maybe it was a gift."

"Hm," she looks like she's thinking about that as her lips tilt to the side and her eyes scan the truck. "Is your radio up?"

"Yes, Sergeant," you nod, daring her to check it because you know you did it right.

"Your crew serve?"

She's talking about the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW), a light machine gun that has already been mounted in the turret on top of the Humvee. "Evans and I set it up, he's helping out the other teams right now."

"Both of you got all your gear?"

"And all our weapons," you mention because it's the next question on her list. There's a pair of rifles between your legs and a nine mil on your hip. "3-2B is up, Sergeant."

"You did everything without your NCO?" she seems amused by it, the pale light making her smile look Cheshire. She's up to something and you have a horrible feeling that you're involved.

"He's on ammo detail," you know that she knows that, which makes her behavior just that much more suspicious. "He's already out at the training site."

"Oh yeah," the grin spreads wider over her face, "he was on that list, wasn't he?"

You look away to keep from smiling too, because you know that he had to wake up three hours earlier than you. It's murder to be on ammo detail and it looks like SFC Fabray did it on purpose. If she did that for you, well, that's kind of cool.

"Look," her voice is much more serious and you look back to her eyes, "you're gonna be driving the LT out, so don't expect too much from her in the ways of direction, but make sure that she doesn't think that you're doing it all on your own, understand?"

You nod, "I get it, Sergeant."

"Good," she steps away from the door, "now come on, grab Evans and the others from your squad, we need to get a weapons count."

You jump out of your truck, slinging Evans' rifle and carrying your own. You head towards the rear of the truck formation and in the opposite direction as your platoon sergeant. You tell everyone you pass to head up for weapons count and the brief. It figures that Evans has made it through the entire squad, he's a crafty guy and good with the weapons mount. You're just about to the end of the line when you spot the field ambulance, pulling up slowly behind one of headquarters vehicles.

SSG Pierce is walking in front of it, a vision in camouflage. Her vest is put together with ammunition carriers and the kind of pouches that aren't issued by the Army; they're specialized to carry medical supplies and you're sure you could find traces of Afghanistan at the bottom of them. Her helmet, still sporting the ivy diamond of the 4th Infantry Division, is tucked under her arm and her patrol cap sits atop her head, a few blonde strands spilling out.

She turns when she reaches the truck in front of her, waving the driver, PVT Motta, forward to make sure she parks at the proper distance, nice and close to the bumper. By closing her fist she orders the truck to stop and surprisingly, Motta knows the command.

It's also surprising that she cuts the engine, because you're supposed to leave it running—everyone knows that. The Army's carbon footprint must be huge, but that's how it's done. SSG Pierce was just about to start out from between the trucks when she noticed it too, "Motta, you can leave—"

Because you're staring like a creeper, you notice that the truck is... moving? Slowly inching forward, towards the woman standing between it and the Humvee behind her.

You jolt, "Hey!"

SSG Pierce isn't clueless though, "Motta, hit the brake!"

In fact she's nimble, stepping onto the bumper of the ambulance and with a catlike speed and, in a scramble, is able to maneuver herself into a kneeling position on the hood, shouting, "Brake, brake, brake!"

The truck lurches sharply to a halt, she braces herself on the lip of the hood under the windshield, and stops an inch or so from the bumper of the Humvee. You breathe, knowing that she's safe. You're relief only lasts as long as it takes to get pissed. You would like to crawl into the passenger's side door and drag Motta out by her collar to knock some sense into her.

"You have to pull the parking break," SSG Pierce tells her from the hood, her voice firmly set, close to yelling. "You got it?"

A faint, "Yes, Sergeant," is heard and SSG Pierce hops off the hood, opening the driver's door, "maybe I should drive, you just got your license."

"I'm so sorry!" Motta nearly spills from the truck. She doesn't have a single utility pouch on her vest and her nametape is a little crooked. "Sergeant, I didn't know, if you shut it off it shouldn't move, right?"

SSG Pierce tosses her helmet into the driver's seat, "Don't worry about it, Motta, really. Just remember for next time, okay? Can you get in the back and make sure we have everything we need. You have the list I made right?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

She runs around to the back of the truck and you keep walking so no one notices that you've been staring for the past five minutes. You do see her open the back doors, and then promptly struggle with the getting the small foot ladder down.

"Sergeant, um... how do I get the ladder down?"

You roll your eyes, like that makes her pathetic, but you have no idea how to get the ladder down either so... whatever, that's a medic's job.

SSG Pierce appears next to her, "It's right here, look there's a draw string. If you weren't so short it would have been obvious," she smiles down at her soldier, her previous annoyance completely vanished, "don't beat yourself up over it."

You turn away for good this time, off to find Evans in a frustrated stomp. You haven't spoken to her since the basement and the last thing you want to see is her being awesome with another soldier.

If only you had been a medic. If only you hadn't thrown a fit and started acting weird. It kills you, but you've ruined this, you've made it tense and you get that she doesn't know how to handle you right now. You don't really know how to handle yourself, or all of the things she makes you feel.

Neither of you really has time to figure anything out. The pre-deployment training has really started up and if you're not being board to death watching power-points on how to spot IEDs, you're in the field practicing it. This part is actually fun. Everyone get's to the company at the ass crack of dawn and loads up into a mess of Humvees and supply trucks—you always seem to be able to spot the ambulance in the crowd—and convoy out to the training sites that surround Fort Campbell.

Some of them are really complex; small mini towns made to replicate a village you might find in Iraq or Afghanistan. You'll set up a base and run practice missions around the fake town, playing Army so when you go to war you'll know what to do.

They teach you everything. How to set up camp, how to maintain your security, how to dispatch missions from your base of operations, what happens when you think you spot an IED, what to do when you take fire, how to talk to local nationals and their basic customs.

You're learning a lot in the small amount of time you have left, but oddly, you feel prepared.

The only thing you have a problem with is Karofsky. He doesn't seem to be picking up anything the other NCOs are putting down. He makes your team look retarded even when you and Evans would have done it right if you had been in charge.

You would kill for that opportunity.

* * *

If you were in charge you wouldn't be standing out in the open, guarding a door, while the rest of your team was inside searching a building. There's no reason for you to be standing on the corner of this building. Out in the open. Without any means of communication with the rest of the group.

You're a sitting duck and you know it.

You roll your shoulder, adjusting the weight of your rifle against it. It's been a really long day and it's not ever three yet. That happens when you're at work at four in the morning. The sun is still high in the sky and it's so fricken hot out. When you stand in one place for a while you can feel the individual beads of sweat rolling down your body; it's disgusting.

You're disgusting.

You turn your head from where you've been watching the door to call into the building and make sure you team is still alive. Or that they haven't forgotten you out here.

"Hey gu—" you choke on your words, and jump nearly a foot into the air, "Holy fuck!"

SFC Fabray is standing against the wall, not a foot behind you, one arm crossed over her chest, the other holding her hand up, index finger and thumb extended in the shape of a gun. She looks at you and lowers her thumb, "I just killed you, Lopez."

You lower your weapon and try not to sulk, "Yes, Sergeant."

"What the hell are you doing out here?" she pushes off the wall, still agile even in all of her gear, "Where's your team?"

"Inside," you point to the house, "I was told to watch the door and make sure no one came up behind them."

"So..." she looks around again, "you decided to stand in the middle of the road."

"I was told to stand here, Sergeant," this isn't your fault and you wont take credit for Karofsky's bad call.

"Is Karofsky here right now?" she asks simply.

"No, Sergeant."

"So what's stopping you from getting into a better position," she takes you by the front of your vest and drags you to the wall, "a position that might keep you alive."

She runs you through a few things; how to stay low against the wall, how to cover the corner and the door at the same time.

"Now, from this spot," she's crouched next to you, "where's your nearest threat?"

You look around wanting to get the answer right, "That clock tower?"

She nods, "Good place for a sniper or RPG, right? And on top of that, those windows across the street are dangerous. You haven't cleared that building yet, have you?"

"No, Sergeant," you shake your head.

"Or those over there?"

"Not yet."

"It's freaky, you know," she shifts her boot in the sand. "They're everywhere, and you're just a handful of people. The odds always suck."

You stay quiet, hoping that she will keep talking. When she gives you advice, whether it's on where to stand or how to get a better score on your physical fitness test, you listen. When she talks about her experiences, you commit it to memory.

You've only heard a few of her stories, and they're usually only been given to NCOs because she's trying to give them an example to teach by. She's like SSG Pierce in some ways, and doesn't go out of her way to talk about her experience. Whenever she hears people bragging she gets a skeptical look on her face and doesn't encourage them with questions or comment. You've even heard her call out a few people about stories that don't make sense because she's actually been there and knows that there's no way they could have done that.

"These missions—when you walk into a village to meet the elders and offer help or see if they have enough clean water, we'll always ask for information on the assholes blowing everyone up... it's difficult," she scoffs quietly and you're glad you can't see her eyes through her sunglasses, "because it might only be a handful of them making a mess of things, but that handful is related to someone in that village and when you come to get Joey Jihad..."

Suddenly Fort Campbell isn't so hot, or maybe that's just the shiver running you your back.

"His cousin is waiting across the street for you, she tilts her face towards the clock tower, "sitting pretty with an RPG and—"

A chilling noise breaks through the compound. A screeching high pitched wail—loud enough to scramble your thoughts. SFC Fabray acts first and with an intensity that takes you by storm, "Get down!"

She tackles you, wedging you between the wall and herself. There's a blinding moment where you're grappling to keep up with what's happening, but—

_Crack!_

The pyrotechnics of a simulated blast makes your heart stop and your stomach bottom out; the flash of pain, the loss of your equilibrium, the rush of blood to your head as you're laid out on your back. When you blink your eyes open you're careful not to move.

You can hear her short breath, feel the tremble in her arm—tight around your helmet and pressing your head into her chest. If something had happened, if it was a real bomb and not a training simulation, she would have taken the brunt of the impact, and you would've had her body and the wall protecting you.

_If_ it had been real.

But it's not, and you're not sure that she's realized it yet.

She flinches, like she kept in a sneeze, and pulls away from you an inch.

You're sure you're about to get yelled at for some reason. Maybe even another 'that never happened' lecture, but then she starts laughing, rolling away from you with a deep bone rattling laugh that makes your skin crawl.

You push up to a sitting position and clutch your weapon, "Sergeant?"

She's still laughing as she stands, brushing the dust from her uniform. It's a hollow laugh, laced with a bitterness and embarrassment that you feel awkward to have witnessed. She freaked out. You saw it. That noise really freaked her out and you saw it.

"Gotta be faster than that if you want a purple heart, Lopez," she slaps your shoulder like you're old pals.

It stings, not in the shoulder but the pull of your sleeve makes you hiss, "Fuck."

She notices, stepping towards you again, "You're bleeding. Did you scrape your elbow on the wall?"

"Might've," you mumble, looking at the blood seeping through your uniform top. You're pretty sure it happened when she tackled you into the wall.

She might have made that connection too because she has an odd tone to her voice when she tell you, "Give me your weapon, let's get you to the medic."

You don't have a chance to argue before she takes the rifle from your hands, "My team—"

"Karofsky will still have his thumb up his ass when you get back," she waves you on. "Hell, this might even teach him to stop leaving his soldiers out in the open."

You follow her through the training site and towards a golf cart the senior sergeants have been using to get around, "Jump in."

She sets the rifle between you and starts to drive off towards the small camp the company has set up to run mission; where SSG Pierce has an aid station set up. You can't tell if you're looking forward to seeing her or not. Half of you is scared, the other half is begging for it.

It's not that long a drive, SFC Fabray has the thing maxed out for most of the way and takes the curves at nearly the same speed. It would have been fun if you hadn't been bleeding through your uniform. Parking in front of the aid station, a small tent dedicated to the medics and their gear, she grabs your weapon and gets out.

You follow, nervous, bleeding, and already uncomfortable.

The first thing you notice is how much cooler it is in the tent, a small AC unit is buzzing in the corner and you can't believe how lucky the medics are to be able to sit in it all day. There's a stretcher, set up on stilts to keep it about three feet from the ground, along the wall and a table in the corner with a cooler of water bottles and sunscreen.

SSG Pierce is sitting on a lawn chair, a book in her lap, feet propped up on her aid bag. She smiles when she sees SFC Fabray and while it doesn't disappear when her eyes shift to you, it's not the same smile and you know it.

"What's up?" she asks her friend while she's looking at you. You look away, awkward under her scrutiny and possibly fake smile.

"Lopez banged her elbow against a wall," your Platoon Sergeant is gesturing for you to take off your gear so you start with your helmet. "It's bleeding pretty badly."

"Let me check it out," she stands and walks towards you, helping you take off your vest without hitting your injury. Her closeness puts you on edge. When she sees the blood spot she says, "Jeez, what happened?"

SFC Fabray is hovering off to the side, obviously not wanting to admit that she caused it, "I—"

"I tripped," you cut her off for some reason, "and fell into a wall. It was hilarious."

SSG Pierce sends you a look and you can't quite decipher it before she's examining your arm again, "I don't think we'll be able to roll up your sleeve that much, so you want to take off your top?"

You wish she was asking in an entirely different context.

It's insane, how easily she can pretend that you never had that conversation at the hockey rink. It's impossible for you, you've _tried_. You can't get the idea of her with a woman out of your head.

Because A, leads to B, and then to C.

If she's been with a women, you're a woman, she maybe could be interested in you.

Someday.

And that sliver of hope created in twisted logic makes it impossible to forget. She doesn't seem to have the same concern, watching you for your answer with a concern that you wish was more personal than professional.

You nod and move to do what you were told. You're so caught up in trying to remain casual that you don't think about how bending your arm to get to your zipper will feel; it doesn't feel very good at all.

She catches the pained look on your face, and pushes your hands back down, "Here, let me—"

You must flinch or something because she hesitates, drawing her hands back, "Are you okay?"

The idea that you're so transparent makes you angry and ashamed. She can see right through you and that's probably the worst thing in the entire world. You're sick of being vulnerable around her, so passively pathetic. You force yourself to say, "Yes, Sergeant."

She watches your eyes as she asks, "Can I get your jacket?"

You nod, trying to ignore SFC Fabray's eyes and how you must be acting like such an idiot. They must think you're such a spaz.

Unaware of your internal turmoil, or perfectly content to ignore it, her hands are move towards your collar. You focus on the pain in your arm to keep from thinking about anything else.

"How's the platoon looking?" SSG Pierce asks SFC Fabray a normal question, about normal NCO things, while she unzips your uniform top like that's perfectly normal too.

The zipper is moving down your body and your eyes are burning a hole in her shoulder to keep from looking at anything else. That is until it catches, pulling your collar lightly against the back of your neck, and drawing your eyes to the material just above your stomach.

She takes a breath, and it's enough to let you toss the idea that you weren't going to make eye contact out the window. SSG Pierce is looking back at you when your eyes hit hers—she looks away just to come right back, her fingers fidgeting with the material of your jacket like her life depends on getting the zipper free.

"Sloppy," SFC Fabray sinks into the lawn chair and picks up the discarded book, "they all suck."

There's something between you, hanging in the air you're both breathing. It's a pull; your body wants to be closer, your eyes can't look away, and your heart is hammering like it's just itching to get out of your rib cage and present itself to her like a sacrifice.

The zipper slips free and she laughs shakily, "Everything is sloppy to your standards."

She steps to your left and you angle out of the sleeve. Then she slips behind you. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end at the feeling of her there, just a step behind you, the breeze from her movement tickling your overheated body and making your head light.

"Careful," she's slowly sliding your injured arm out of the jacket sleeve. It stings only briefly and you can bet that there's a chunk of skin still on it. "There we go."

In only your tan tee shirt, suddenly the tent is much too cold. Your sweaty mess of a body has chilled to a uncomfortable temperature and you almost want to cross your arms over your chest to keep warm. She waves to the stretcher and you take a seat.

"My standards are fine," SFC Fabray assures you both, "Lopez, do you think I'm too hard on you guys?"

"No, Sergeant," you say automatically.

She smiles smugly from over SSG Pierce's shoulder, "See?"

SSG Pierce rolls her eyes, "That doesn't mean anything, she'll probably say whatever you want her to."

You frown at that, looking up from your knees with an incredulous expression on your face. Her eyes are waiting for you, sparkling and counting on the reaction she knew was coming. She's teasing you, and maybe trying to get back some control over the situation by having fun at how predictable you are.

It shows that she knows you. She might even be trying to get you to lighten up around her, instead of sitting here like you're about to bolt out of the tent like a scared rabbit.

"Let's test that theory," SFC Fabray thumbs through the book and sends you a challenging look, "Lopez, say that you think the sky is green."

You're not sure what to do, amuse your Platoon Sergeant or be stubborn about it. You play along to keep from focusing on the soft fingers manipulating your arm, "The sky is green, Sergeant."

"Hold still like that, alright?" SSG Pierce asks you quietly.

You nod, and she hauls her aid bag onto the stretcher next to you, grabbing things that she'll need.

SFC Fabray continues, "Say that MPs are better than medics."

SSG Pierce rolls her eyes as she starts to clean your scrape. You repeat the words but make it sound like a question instead of a statement and it makes your Platoon Sergeant laugh, knowing you were trying to keep from insulting the staff sergeant.

"Say," SFC Fabray taps the book on her chin like she's really thinking, "that Karofsky is the best sergeant you've ever met."

You shake your head, "No."

That makes both of the NCOs laugh. SSG Pierce quiets first, saying, "We shouldn't be trashing her NCO in front of her."

She's standing close, one hand around your arm to steady it as the other applies a light coat of anti-bacterial ointment to the scrape. Your skin prickles under her grip, and you lean slightly away from her so you'll be able to keep a clear head.

"Don't worry, Sergeant, I know the rules," you admit. "I know he's still an NCO and I have to treat him like one."

"See," SFC Fabray smiles to her friend, "she knows how to play the game."

"I just don't want your game to get her into any more trouble," SSG Pierce mumbles. You know it's true, he's been in a horrible mood ever since the rest of the company got to the training site and he had to issue everyone ammunition on top of get ready to run missions. "He nearly took off Motta's head when she asked him if he needed any sunscreen."

SFC Fabray looks around, "Where is your little princess anyway?"

"Quinn!" she says with a surprised look, her fingers tightening around your arm.

Her ears are pinking, and you have the idea that the nickname was something they have spoken about before, but privately. You've always wondered if NCOs sit around talking about their soldiers after work. It's not surprising that these two do it... you wonder what they've said about you.

Your Platoon Sergeant looks at you, then rolls her eyes and says, "Fine, where is Private Motta? The one who batted her eyelashes and waved her painted nails until some boys from my platoon hauled all her shit up to her room for her."

You quirk an eyebrow, watching SSG Pierce chew on her bottom lip, "She ran to the porta-johns, but that was like, twenty minutes ago. Could you run out there and see if you can find her?"

"Really?" SFC Fabray whines. She actually whines and you set your jaw to keep from laughing. "It's not like she could have gotten lost, Britt."

"Please?"

Her eyes shift to her friend and you would have a snowball's chance in hell to keep from doing anything she asked with that softly pleading look. You glance over to see how the Platoon Sergeant is holding up. She stares at the medic for a second more before huffing, "Fine, whatever. I have to get back to Berry anyway."

"Thank you," SSG Pierce smiles brightly, a beautiful smile, "send her my way if you find her."

"Yeah, yeah," she grabs her helmet and walks to the edge of the tent. "Lopez, find me after you're finished here, I'm going to take you back to Karofsky myself."

After you nod your, thankful, understanding she walks out of the tent. There's a few minutes of silence that's only filled with the opening of medical packages. She's calm and focused, fixing you up in a manner that you're not going to be able to replicate after you take this bandage off.

"I didn't mean to freak you out earlier," she starts out quietly, keeping her eyes on her work, "medics can get really handsy real fast when we see blood. Makes me feel like a vampire, or a zombie sometimes," she chuckles, trying to keep the conversation light, "I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable or anything."

"You just surprised me," you mutter, "that's all."

Her eyes find yours, and you can't hold them, so you look down to your arm and watch as she wraps your arm up in a elastic bandage with a light pressure, "That should keep it from bleeding any more but if you notice any red spots let me know and I'll change it out."

"Yes, Sergeant."

When you move to scoot off the stretcher her hand on your arm tightens and it keeps you in place, "Lopez."

The name draws your attention to her face, her concerned and conflicted eyes. She's looking at you like she wants to say something and just can't make herself do it.

"I haven't said anything to anyone," you assume that's what she's worried about, if you kept your mouth shut about the hockey game. "I said I wouldn't and I won't."

It bothers you that she doesn't trust you. Wounds you even. You hoped that she thought better of you. You had hoped that she knew that she could trust you with anything.

Anything.

"No," her face falls, and her eyes dart away for a second, "that's not it. Well, not exactly. I wanted to... say that..." she takes a deep breath through her nose, closing her eyes and trying to draw the words together. "I wanted to ask you to stop holding this against me. You can't take offense that I want to keep my private life to myself. It's not fair to me, and I don't appreciate how you've been acting."

She can really just get right to the heart of the matter can't she? You're completely blind sided, because despite how embarrassed you are by being called out on your behavior, it's totally surprising that she would bring this up. You thought that she would bury this and walk away, but she's throwing it back in your face.

You shouldn't be surprised, you did it first, only she's professional enough to be up front about it.

"Sometimes you look at me like I kicked your dog, things are weird between us and I don't like the feeling."

Your grip on the edge of the stretcher tightens until your knuckles whiten. Your throat is constricting like you're about to cry like a chastised little girl. You feel like dirt. Pathetically emotionally juvenile dirt. You've been acting like a child by sending her looks and making her correct you in the hallways.

A complete child.

"I want us to go back to being fine, but I don't know how to get us there."

Fine.

You want to be so much more than fine; you want to be _with_ her. You want to be happy and you want her to be happy too, but... she's standing there with this look in her eyes, asking you to stop being such a bitch because you're hurting her. You're sad and angry and you're taking it out on her.

You're making her sad and angry too.

She wants to be fine.

With a heavy heart you have to admit that fine is better than nothing.

It would kill you if you were nothing.

Dropping your eyes you feel like an idiot, "I'm sorry, I've been stupid, I'll stop."

"You promise?" she asks softly, with more weight to the question then you think she wanted to let on, "because we're not going anywhere and when we deploy it's going to get really hard to avoid each other."

Nodding, you look up to her, "Yeah, I know. I promise."

A light blinks into her eyes, glad for your promise and the idea of being on even footing again. She smiles, kind of shyly, as she let's go of your arm, her thumb tracing brushing against your skin as it falls away.

Fine is just fine with you.

* * *

In the last few weeks of training, you've spent more time in fake villages than in your barracks, some times you even stay the night in the training sites, setting up cots and crashing for five hours, just to start back up again before the sun comes up.

It's an exhausting kind of fun. You're not just learning about how to survive a deployment from a slide show, you're living it out, and surrounded by the most experienced of leaders.

"Pass me your shank."

"It's not called a shank."

"Britt, the knife. Give it to me."

SSG Pierce and SFC Fabray included.

The females have been segregated off from the rest of the company, setting up cots in a small room on the back side of the building for your second nights stay in the training village. It's no too bad in here, thick concrete walls and a dirt floor. There's two large crude windows, simply missing bricks with no screen or means to close them. Even without a window panes, or even a real door there's a certain charm here.

Streaks of orange sunlight are slipping through windows, coloring the back wall and giving the room a warm glow. You can't help but notice the way it plays in the heads of blonde hair in the corner of your eye.

You can hear the smile in SSG Pierce's voice when she says, "Magic word?"

SFC Fabray isn't as amused, "I'll kill you."

"Yeah," she snorts, "that really makes me want to hand you a weapon."

You look up to watch her hand over the knife, a small black tactical, that seems perfect for her hand. You've been trying to figure out what they're doing without being too obvious that you're watching. Around you the rest of the women in your company are caught up cleaning their weapons and yours is disassembled in front of you as you sit cross legged on your cot.

They've both already cleaned their weapons, with an efficiency that you know tops the product of the other, slower, attempts. They've taken to cutting out strips of tactical cord for some strange Army arts and crafts project. SSG Pierce is taking her strips up in her hand, "Do you have your lighter?"

SFC Fabray nods, "In my pack, I'll get it in a second."

Their cots are close together, separated by no more then the space necessary to put a leg between them because that's how SFC Fabray is sitting, one leg between the cots and the other tucked close to her body. SSG Pierce is matching you with her legs crossed, her rifle laying across them.

"Do you really have to start smoking again?"

Your platoon sergeant huffs, "Yes, Britt, I do. It's a deployment thing, you know that."

"It's gross," you watch her nose crinkle cutely, "and you smell like blah."

SFC Fabray's eyes flick up from her cord and she turns slowly to her friend, "Like... blah?"

"Totally," the medic nods solemnly and you bite back a laugh.

"Right," she turns at her waist, digging into her assault pack to find the lighter she was talking about, "well, here's your blah."

"Thanks," she sets it down to finish her work.

They're looping the cord around the mounted sights on their rifles, then tying the cord around the body of their rifles. You look down at your weapon, deeming it clean, you reassemble it and wipe it down with the tan tee shirt you wore yesterday.

"You done, Lopez?"

Your Platoon Sergeant is looking at you from over her own weapon, her hands paused in front of her. You keep her eyes and say, "I am, Sergeant."

She jerks her head in a silent request. You stand, taking your weapon with you for the impromptu inspection, you even pop the bolt that connects the body to the buttstock so she can get to the inside easier. When you get over there, a mere five feet from your cot to theirs, she's in the middle of a complicated looking knot and asks, "Will you look at her weapon for me?"

The medic's eyes shift up from her weapon, you were pretty sure that she had kept her eyes down while you walked over on purpose. In the last couple weeks, training has kept you busy—and close.

You're starting to realize that SSG Pierce is probably one of the most genuine people in the entire world.

When she told you to forget it ever happened, she treated you exactly like it never happened. And when she tells you that everything is fine between you, it is.

She's moved past it and you're happy to catch up. Even if her relationship with that whack job in Nashville is still an odd kind of secretive, you've accepted that it's how she wants to play it, and you're glad to play along if it means she'll keep acting like this.

She made it appoint to say good morning to you the other day, as if she needed to prove to you that she wanted to be on some sort of speaking terms again, and you have to admit that it made your day. Even if Karofsky got you killed in about three different fictional scenarios, that day was still awesome. She'll ask you how you're doing if she runs into you around the village, or smile when you just happen to bump into her in the chow line.

It's safe to say that you're fine now, maybe a little better than. Of course, you'll always be sort of jumpy when she talks to you directly, but that has nothing to do with your weird fight, and has everything to do with the way her eyes makes you feel like she's noticing everything there is to notice about you, and how her voice makes you loose your own.

"May I?" one eyebrow dances above the other, and she holds out her hand.

You are so glad that she knocked some sense into you. This is too good to miss over a bitch in skates. Each and every moment like this, when she's acknowledging you, waiting earnestly for your reply, these are the moments that you wouldn't trade for any kind of grudge.

You hand over the weapon with the first spark of anxiety, wishing that you had looked over it one last time. You want to impress her so badly, it will be detrimental if she gives you anything less than an A in weapons cleaning.

She's not skimping on the inspection either, sliding out your bolt to inspect it and it's tiny moving parts. She takes her time with the trigger mechanism. You're happy to see that her fingers are coming away clean on each piece of metal.

She glances at them, then you with the barest smirk on her face as she sits there in her tan tee shirt, trousers low on her hips, and your rifle between her legs.

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, trying to keep from looking too nervous—or blushing. Her hands, lead by fingers that are every bit as experienced and as knowing as their owner, move across your weapon, dipping into the crevasses and skimming over the smooth metal.

When your Drill Sergeant told you to think of your weapon as an extension of yourself, you rolled your eyes and thought that she should lay off the Samurai movies, but right now—it feels like it's true. Something warm is seeping into your chest as she palms a firm grip around the hand guard of your barrel shaft. Her thumb, trailing along your magazine-well, is making your light headed.

She's touching your weapon like you want her to be touching you. With an intimacy that's only achieved through experience and familiarity. She knows this weapon, its ins and outs; how to rip it apart and put it back together again. She knows its strengths and weaknesses and she knows how to compensate for them, to work with them.

She knows how to love it.

Your stomach clenches and you shift awkwardly in your boots as she finally gets to the most important part—that small little entrance to the barrel, where the bullets are pushed though from the magazine by the force of the bolt. They call it the star chamber and statistically, it's the dirtiest part of the weapon, where most of the gunshot residue and carbon collect.

That doesn't really help get your mind out of the gutter.

Your hands are in tight fists in your effort to remain calm but it's hard to not look like you're about to have an heart attack when her delicate middle finger is inching towards your weapon's most intimate place.

Her tongue pokes out of her lips, her brow furrowed in the picture of concentration as she slips her digit into the hole. Your watch her wrist twist, manipulating her finger to search the small space for even a trace of the black soot you might have neglected to clean.

Your mind doesn't have the capacity to understand the meaning of the word clean. You're shaken, hair standing on end along your arms and neck, throat dry and breathless from watching her finger your weapon.

With a tug—it's a tight fit—she pulls out and examines the tip of her finger. SSG Pierce looks at it with astute eyes and rubs her finger and thumb together. You jerk when she looks at you, and it makes her blink curiously, but she doesn't say anything other than, "You did good, Lopez, I'm satisfied."

You almost die, and with nearly trembling hands take back your weapon. It's warm in your hands, still fresh from her affection. You put it back together with a conviction that might have been misplaced, but you don't care, you need to focus on something. You're about to walk over to your cot when she stops you with the lightest touch to your arm.

You look back with the calmest face you can muster, trying to hide the blush on your face and the way your heart is racing.

"We're tying down our ACOGs," she points to the tactical sight that's neatly strapped to her weapon and glances up at you with this almost hopeful look in her eyes, "did you want to learn how?"

"Yes."

It's out of your mouth before you can think better of it. Before you can think about what might happen if you spend any more time with her after you just went to cloud nine and back.

Her eyes light up and it puts an end to any second guessing.

"Sit down," she scoots back on her cot and gives you some space.

You'll do anything to stay close to her. You feel like you're about to snap, but you'll suck it up, sit down calmly, and act casual for as long as you possibly can.

"It's just something safe to do," she explains, reaching for some cord, "because the little screws can loosen and it keeps everything nice and tight."

"Right," you choke out. Nice and tight.

SFC Fabray is finishing up hers, burning the ends of her cord with the lighter so that they wont fray, "Only high speed kids do this kinda stuff, but I guess we can let you in on the secret."

She sends you a smirk. You feel like you passed a test and are being rewarded with a small nugget of insider information. You want this, to be part of their bubble of experience, because these are two of the best NCOs in the company and while you look up to one, you're completely in love with the other.

"Here," she hands you a strip of cord and as you take it, it might just be you, but it felt like she held on for barely a second too long, enough to let you feel that small tug of resistance before she let go completely. Her eyes are still smiling when she starts to tell you about the best kind of knot to use.

You wonder if she's in on your own secret.


	15. DA PAM 600 Dash 65

DA PAM 600-65: Leadership Statements and Quotes.

_You must prepare yourself. If you are not competent in a tactical and technical sense, you will not be ﬁt to lead. You will be a danger to your Soldiers, exposing them needlessly, and destroying their conﬁdence in themselves as well as in you. — BG S. L. A. Marshall_

* * *

Deploying or not, your company still has an obligation to the garrison police force. Your platoon was really screwed over by being put on nightshift again. That's fine; you've been so exhausted from training that you were able to sleep all day before shift. It's almost kind of cool that you're getting a few more patrols in before this deployment, you know, to say goodbye to the comfortable seats in your Tahoe, the ability to get coffee whenever you want, and listening to the radio as you drive around looking for idiots to pull over.

You're driving out of gate ten. It's a back gate and leads to a large span of land filled with training sites, firing ranges, and even a few fishing ponds. It's nice out here, the roads are lined by a thick wall of woods and you've spent a good amount of time running around them playing war with your unit. Once you make it past the gate you throw on your brights because there's more deer out here than trees.

Down the hill, the Outdoor Recreation facilities have a cute little campground and park set up by a river and you're planning on taking a drive past to see if anyone is misbehaving. You're in the mood to tell a bunch of teenagers to get lost if they're down there making a mess of things.

The motorcycle that rips around the corner makes you deviate from your plans. You're not sure how fast they're going but if you're driving the speed limit, they have to be driving over that.

You flip on your lights and siren, hitting the gas. Your hand hovers over your radio receiver, trying to decide if you want to call it in or not. Maybe it's the moonlight, maybe it's the small frame and hair spilling out of the skull cap helmet; you don't make the call.

She slows to a crawl and maneuvers her motorcycle onto the shoulder. You shut off your brights and cut the siren. When you point your spotlight on the area next to her you see she's holding something up for you to see. You have to squint, but you see it's a rectangle Military Police shoulder patch that matches the one on your uniform right now. She's an MP and she's trying to keep you from calling in her license plate and putting her on the blotter. You weren't planning on it, but this is good information.

Jumping out of your vehicle, the lights still flashing on top, you take a second to fix the pistol belt on your hips, making sure it's sitting right, bringing the bill of your patrol cap down low. After you ensuring that you're as intimidating as you can possibly make yourself, you walk over.

She's taking off her helmet and running her hand through blonde and bobbed hair.

Your heart nearly stops.

You just pulled over your platoon sergeant.

SFC Fabray is looking at you with her helmet in her lap and a mild smirk on her face. She probably wants to laugh at you because you probably look like a nervous mess. You lick your lips and try to get your bearings, she can't do anything to you for this, it's your job… right?

"Good evening, Sergeant," you put your hands on your hips and try to keep from standing at parade rest. You're a Military Policewoman and you don't stand at parade rest for the people you pull over, even if it is your Platoon Sergeant.

Even if she looks like a badass in her black jacket and jeans.

"It's an evening," she laughs a little, and you can tell she thinks you're amusing. You'll take amused over angry any day, but it's best to tread lightly, you know full well that Fabray can flip in a second. "How are you?"

"I'm doing well," you nod, uncomfortable with casual small talk, "you were speeding, though."

"I probably was," she shrugs, unconcerned and drumming her fingers on the helmet in her lap. "Did you call it in?"

Her eyes are watching you with such an astute focus that it's unnerving. You think she can probably tell what you had for dinner because she can see microscopic crumbs on your shirt.

"No," you shake your head, looking up and down the road to try and figure out what she would be doing all the way out here this late at night.

"I keep an MP patch on me just in case I get pulled over on post," she snorts, rolling her eyes. "It happens more than it probably should, I'm lucky my platoon is on shift tonight, huh?"

Her comment, delivered with such a offhanded confidence, inadvertently confirms what you already know; she's not getting a ticket tonight.

"I had already decided not to call it in before I saw it," you admit.

She looks at you curiously, "Were you waiting to hear my excuse?"

"No," you're surprised that she remembers that conversation in SSG Pierce's jeep, "I just didn't want to do the paperwork this time."

She grins at that, understanding.

"How's your shift been so far?" she seems actually kind of interested, in that concerned NCO kind of way.

"Pretty quiet seeing as it's two in the morning," you meet her eyes and they ask the real question.

She studies you, her eyes glancing from the rank on your chest, to the freshly added badge over your heart. Her eyes linger on the shoulder of your right arm and the lack of a deployment patch. You wonder if she's judging you by your inexperience.

People like you, without a patch on her arm to prove she's been deployed, tested as a soldier, been through that hardship; people like you are treated differently. It's subtle of course, but you feel excluded, like you're not part of the group, an outsider, a second string wannabe that's never played in a real game.

You hate that feeling.

Instead of belittling you she asks, "How do you feel about our deployment training, are you getting anything out of it?"

"Besides the feeling that Karofsky is going to get me killed? Yeah, I've learned a few things."

It's two in the morning, so you decide that you're allowed to joke around with something that's not really a joke at all. Her eyebrows lift, either surprised or impressed by your audacity to call out your NCO. Whatever, she's already told you that she doesn't have that much faith in him either. You're hoping that if you bring it up, maybe she'll give another thought to switching him with someone else.

Anyone else.

"A lot can happen before we get there," she leaves it open like there's a chance. It's a small ray of hope that you're both thankful for and annoyed with. If it's going to happen you want it to happen soon. "But what about everything else, do you think you're ready to go?"

Are you ready?

You've always know it would be coming. Hell, you shouldn't be surprised because you're in the _Army_ and really, it was just a matter of time. As soon as you got to this unit you knew you would be deploying. All of the MP units on Fort Campbell deploy in a rotation and you always knew your ticket would come up eventually but back then it had been in a year... then eight months... then six. Now you're deploying in two months and you don't know how it snuck up on you.

Two months isn't really that much time.

You shrug as an answer because it doesn't matter if you're ready or not, it's still happening. You're not going to be one of those soldiers, the ones that weasel their way out of it; the guys that get medical profiles stating they can't wear combat gear because of back problems or the women that get pregnant on purpose.

You're going to face this head on. You won't run from it.

"We'll finish up our training this month, take two weeks to do some admin stuff, two weeks off, then ship out," she tells you. As she speaks her eyes slide to somewhere behind you, and she's not thinking about you; she's lost in her own ideas of what's going to happen.

You're not sure what to say, why she brought it up, or why she's riding her motorcycle at two in the morning when she has to work tomorrow. She literally has to be at first formation in four hours and she's sitting on her motorcycle and talking to you about an upcoming deployment. You're not really sure of anything right now.

Her focus is back on you in a single blink, "Are you excited?"

"Am I supposed to be excited about something like that?" you ask quietly.

It's a double sided blade. You don't want to seem eager because it's crass to _want_ to get sent to war, but you don't want to seem scared of it either.

You're nervous, it's a huge deal and potentially life threatening... but a part of you _is_ excited. You see people with their deployment patches, talking about their war stories, and you want to know what all the fuss is about. You want your own stories, your own patch on your shoulder, and your own chance to say that you've been there and done that.

She seems to understand what you're talking about, "It's good that you're not taking this lightly."

"I wish I knew what to expect," you rub the back of your neck and try to pretend that you're not being so lame right now.

"I've been there a couple of times and I'm always surprised," she tosses out carelessly, she gets why you're nervous and she's not judging you for it. "We'll all get there and figure it out together, Lopez."

Her words imply a closeness, reminding you that you're not going to be doing this alone, that your platoon and your company will be there too. She'll be there and you're confident that she'll take good care of you.

You're about to ask about Karofsky again, but cut yourself off when you see a pair of headlights coming towards you. You wonder what other crazy person is up at two in the morning on a weeknight. The vehicle blows by you both and you recognize the jeep instantly.

"Shit."

You glance at SFC Fabray after she swears, "Is that—"

"You should take off," she tells you, her eyes still on the jeep, who's tires are screeching to a halt.

You're confused, and a little nervous, "What is she—"

The jeep jerks into a haphazard U-Turn, pulling onto the shoulder in front of SFC Fabray's motorcycle.

"Seriously, Lopez, you need to get lost," she's speaking a more firmly, her foot setting the kickstand of her bike so she can stand. You take a step towards your patrol vehicle but then she says, "No wait, give me your gun."

You stop frozen in the gravel, because you can't tell if she's being serious or not.

Together you watch SSG Pierce jump out of her jeep. She's wearing a Penn State hoodie and a pair of sweats and looks like she just crawled out of bed. This doesn't take away from how she is positively storming towards your Platoon Sergeant. Her eyes fall on you for a terrifying second and you almost run back to your truck.

"Brittany," the Platoon Sergeant takes a few steps forward, holding her helmet in front of her like a shield, "I left a note—"

"You left a note but didn't take your phone?" the medic shoves the helmet into SFC Fabray's chest. Her voice is quiet, knowing too well that you're standing within earshot. She's never been one to yell, but her words are laced with a distress that makes you cringe, _"Couldn't sleep, out riding, see you at formation?"_

This was the oddest thing you've ever seen. A Staff Sergeant chewing out a Sergeant First Class for going on a ride in the middle of the night. Their familiarity is grating, deep in the pit of your stomach. You're jealous in a way you can't explain. It's not that you think they're together, because SSG Pierce kind of told you they weren't, and you're clinging to that hope that it's true, but SSG Pierce is upset in a special kind of way.

She's upset in the way people get when someone they really care about does something that really worries them.

You don't have anyone that worries about you like that. No one would be compelled to drive around at this hour in their pajamas for you. You take a step away from the drama because you don't want to intrude.

"You stay put," SSG Pierce points at over SFC Fabray's shoulder and you stop in your tracks.

"Let her go, Britt," SFC Fabray says.

It almost sounds like she's asking.

SSG Pierce ignores her and keeps her eyes on you, her voice falling into that NCO tone of authority, "Did you give her a ticket?"

Your eyes shift over to SFC Fabray before you answer, "No, Sergeant."

"Is that because she's your Platoon Sergeant?"

"Really, Brittany?" SFC Fabray scoffs, obviously offended.

"What did you pull her over for?"

You've never seen her this angry. Even if she's not yelling, there's a fire in those eyes that makes her very intimidating in the harsh blue and red lights from your patrol vehicle.

"Speeding?" she prompts when you take too long to answer. "She was _speeding_, wasn't she?"

You're torn. You want to be honest with her; you can't stand the idea of lying to her and possibly ruining something between you two. You know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she'll be able to tell you're lying. You know it.

SFC Fabray cuts in to try to save you, "Brittany, seriously, she's my soldier, can we not do this—"

"Can you not do _this,_ Quinn?" she asks in that airy voice women get when they're trying to keep from crying. "Can you not ride around like a maniac at all hours of the night? I have been out for two hours looking for your body lying on the side of the damn road."

"Britt, I can handle myself, I'm careful—"

"So careful that you laid your bike down last weekend?"

SFC Fabray's posture goes from surprised, to a troubled kind of thing as she tries to pull an explanation out of thin air, to finally going ridged; her shoulders tight and square, eyes narrowed. She's flipped the switch and on the defensive, "I walked away from that, it _wasn't_ a big deal."

"A motorcycle accident isn't a big deal? Skidding who knows how far down a road isn't a big deal?" SSG Pierce can't believe what she's hearing. "I found your torn up jeans, and I know you stole supplies from of my aid bag to take care of your leg—you've been limping all week!"

SFC Fabray throws her arms out exasperated, "So I had a limp, Britt, I'm not gonna cry about it like a little girl. I was barely going fast at all and if there hadn't been gravel on the curve it never would have happened. It could've happened to anyone."

"Stop trying to justify—"

"Stop trying to coddle me, I've survived a lot worse than—"

"Exactly my point, Quinn! I didn't save your life just to have you kill yourself on that stupid bike!"

You flinch at the way her voice cracks and see SFC Fabray do the same. SSG Pierce doesn't even try to hide the tears brimming in her eyes and they bore into SFC Fabray's stunned face relentlessly.

This is now fifty shades of awkward and you take a slow step away from them, your footstep sounds harsh in the gravel, but you keep moving and neither of them pays you any mind. You finally make it back to your vehicle and jump in.

You should probably leave, let them work out their drama in peace, but you stay put. Something's keeping you here… to make sure a deer doesn't jump out of the woodline and attack them at the very least.

After another moment SSG Pierce turns and walks off to her jeep. SFC Fabray watches her get in and waits until her tires are on the road before she moves back to her motorcycle. She sets her helmet on the seat and walks towards your vehicle. You roll down your window and wonder if this could get any weirder.

Her face is guarded when she gets to your window and you don't blame her.

Soldiers aren't supposed to see stuff like that, it's personal, emotional, and makes it seem like she's vulnerable in some way. At worst, she's probably worried that you'll lose some respect for her and possibly think that she's not capable of leading if she's reckless like this.

You're not judging, everyone has their vices, and if she likes to ride around, getting a rush from going too fast, whatever. She's still one of the best NCOs you've ever met. You think about the way she freaked out at the sound of that fake bomb. She acted like it was real because it's so ingrained in her mind. How many deployments had she been on? Now you know for sure that she has gotten into some shit with SSG Pierce.

That explains how close they are.

Her voice is a little gruff when she asks, "Why did you stay?"

"I wasn't about to leave you both on the side of the road," you won't let yourself look away from her eyes, knowing it's a challenge.

She puts her elbows against the bottom of the window and leans forward, "You think we need your protection?"

The question makes you feel like a six year old boy holding a fake sword instead of a soldier with a gun on her waist. It's a rhetorical question so you focus on stopping yourself from leaning away from her. You're trying to prove something here.

"I don't need a babysitter, Lopez, I can take care of myself."

She's not talking to you, not really. She's still worked up and defensive about SSG Pierce being so worried about her. In your opinion, she's being an idiot. You would kill to have SSG Pierce that worked up about finding you missing in the middle of the night. No matter how much you want to say that, you can't.

"Do I have to ask you to keep this to yourself?"

"No, Sergeant," you shake your head slightly, glad that she's not threatening you, just asking.

She's looking at you hard, tiring to find any trace of deception, a hint of uncertainty.

"I'm not going to say anything," you say firmly, "whatever happens between you and Sergeant Pierce is your business, Sergeant."

Her mask breaks a little and her head drops onto her forearm, and you can hear her curse, "Goddamn it."

"She can dish out a mean guilt trip," you sympathize because you would be in tears if the medic was looking at you like that.

SFC Fabray lets out a low laugh, "You don't know the half of it."

"How did she even know you were gone?" you throw out casually, trying to get a clue.

"I don't know," she frowns at the thought.

So it seemed that they usually kept to themselves at night. You can take some comfort in that.

"You should probably get back on the road," she takes a step away from your vehicle, not mentioning that she should probably get home too, "have a safe night."

"You too, Sergeant."

You watch her walk over to her motorcycle and swing her leg over it, running her hand through her hair before she puts her helmet on and starts up the engine. After she leaves you sit on the side of the road for a minute longer, trying to figure out what to make of everything.

* * *

They're fighting.

It's obvious to you. In the last few days of training, they haven't eaten a single meal together, SFC Fabray is never in the medic's tent, and they're never walking around the training area together like the pair of badasses they are. You miss the sight and it sucks that they're fighting because Fabray has been high strung ever since the night you pulled her over.

Both of them are being awkward around you, avoiding your eyes or staring at you hard, daring you to say anything about it. You haven't said anything to anyone, not even Evans, who is one of the only people to notice the tension too.

During lunch, when you're sitting against a wall in a small lapse of shade, trying to eat your MRE in the ten minutes before the next training mission, he asks, "Do you know what happened between Pierce and Fabray?"

"How the hell should I know?" you keep your eyes on your sorry excuse for a meal. This thing is disgusting, but if you don't eat it you'll be starving, then you'll get grumpy, and then you're liable to kill Karofsky. So it's best to suck it up and avoid that entire scenario.

"I don't know," Evans doesn't drop it like you had hoped, "you're like their favorite."

"I'm not their favorite," you roll your eyes, feeling self-conscious. Is that what he thought? What gave him that idea? Who else thought that? "Flanagan is Pierce's favorite, look at him, all smiles and shit because he finally has a badge on his chest."

He looks to over to where the medics are eating in their ambulance, legs dangling out the back and talking among themselves. He just got back for Air Assault School and it's really cool that he graduated. You heard he had a few close calls, but made it out with his wings. PVT Motta looks all sorts of impressed with him. SSG Pierce is sitting on the step ladder, laughing at something someone said. Her smile is there, thin at best, and you catch the way she glances at the building you know SFC Fabray is in, eating with the other Platoon Sergeants.

You feel like someone is stepping on your chest. It's irrational, but you want them to work it out soon, somehow you've become secondhand depressed by watching them fight over something you can't talk to anyone about. If there was something you could do to help, you would. You know it's not your place to say anything, so you don't.

"Don't be mean," Evans chuckles, shoving your shoulder lightly, "you were pretty excited when you got yours too."

"Whatever," you know he's right. He can think you're in a bad mood all he wants, at least he's not asking you about SSG Pierce anymore.

"Have you thought about taking leave yet?" he asks a little quieter, even though there's no one around you. He does this when you talk about serious things, maybe he thinks if he speaks softly he won't scare you off. It almost always works.

"I called my mom," you finish off your food and start packing up the wrappers, "she said that they can't make it down to the going away ceremony and that if I went back to Ohio they wouldn't be able to take off work, so I'd be hanging out at home alone."

"My offer's still open."

You know it is. You know he would drive you out to his home to meet his family and give you a place to go get a nice home cooked meal and a mother's hug before you left for war. It's really sweet of him to want to share his family like that.

"I don't want to like, intrude on your family time just because mine won't make time for me," you sit back, pulling down the bill of your cap so you can watch SSG Pierce without him noticing.

"Don't worry about that," his smile is genuine, "I told you, my family would love to have you. I mean that, Santana."

"Maybe I'll only stay a week," the company is getting two weeks off, "then hang out here for the last week so you guys can get some time."

"Or you can spend all of it there," he suggests easily, leaving it entirely up to you. "Whatever you want."

"Thanks," you glance over at him to let him know you're serious.

"No problem."

* * *

"Lopez, take that room," SGT Karofsky tells you pointing to a doorway on your left.

"We probably shouldn't split up," you say it even though it's not what he wants to hear.

"Don't be such a girl," he pushes you towards the doorway and you see Evans tense.

You catch his eye and shake your head, giving your NCO the appropriate response with a touch of sarcasm, "Roger, Sergeant."

They split off into another room and you're left in the hall. You raise your weapon to the door and push it open with your foot, looking for any sign of movement. All you can hear is your breathing and the muffled sounds of their footsteps moving away.

This training site is larger than most, an entire complex of buildings, some of them two or three stories to simulate an Iraqi village. On this mission, your platoon has been tasked to secure it, and your team has been assigned to clear this building in particular. It's ridiculous. It takes more than three people to take on a building this size and you shouldn't be splitting up at all.

But whatever, you're not in charge. If you die it's on him.

"If there's anyone in here, come out with your hands up," you use our strongest voice and hope that if there's anyone from Headquarters Platoon in this room they'll play nice.

They've been spread around the village to play the role as villagers; you're supposed to react to them and their threat levels accordingly.

No one comes out and you're not surprised. They're going to make it hard for you. If you were running around pretending to be the bad guys, you would too. You remember SSG Pierce's face when they asked her if the medics could play along. She was so excited.

You hold your rifle closer to your shoulder and decide that if they want to make this hard, you're not going to go easy. You've been given simulation rounds, a high-tech kind of paintball that hurts like hell when you get hit with them. You're ready to put them to use.

You move slowly into the room, keeping your eyes out for movement, there's no one in the corners or behind row of wall lockers on the far wall. You have to check all of these lockers—just in case. One of them is already open, so you move past it. Your hands are sweating in your gloves and there's a mist of condensations gathering along your clear ballistic eye protection.

You grab the handle of the second locker, take a short breath, and wrench it open.

It's empty.

Moving to the next and last wall locker, you feel like if anyone is going to be in these things, it's going to be in this one. You steady yourself. Talking another breath before opening it, weapon ready, finger on the trigger and—it's empty.

You scoff, so impressed at yourself for getting worked up over nothing. Slamming the door shut you, lower your weapon and turn on your heel, agitated and ready to get back to you team.

_Bam._

There's a loud thud behind you, startling you into the air as you turn around with your heart in your throat and your weapon lifting out of instinct, habit, necessity. Your finger is on the trigger and—you hesitate.

You hesitate and she takes the advantage.

She rushes forward, slapping the barrel of your rifle away. You're on the ground before you can tell what happened. Did she kick your feet out from under you? Did you trip over them yourself? Your helmet cracks against the concrete floor and you're frazzled enough to let her completely own your ass.

It's _her_. You recognized her eyes even though the rest of her body and face are covered in the traditional body gowns and headdresses that you might see in Iraq, they want to make this training as realistic as possible and it's throwing you for a loop. You couldn't shoot her, even if it's just with a paintball—even if it's just for training.

You open your eyes and blink into focus. Her knees are pinning your rifle and your arms to your chest, she's somehow gotten your handgun out of your holster. She looks it over, "I love these sim-rounds. I've never been in a unit willing to splurge on this stuff."

"First Sergeant Sylvester has no sense of a budget," you mumble, it's hard to breathe under the weight on your chest. She weighs more than she looks—maybe it's the fact that she has at least three inches on you, or maybe it's that she's sitting on top of you that has your breath caught in your throat.

She nods, reaching up to pull the head dress off her face and so you're glad for it. On her cheeks are two horizontal lines of camouflage paint, football style. You think it's the best thing you've ever seen. A few more strands of hair have fallen out of her bun than usual and you want to reach up and touch it, but your hands are pinned under your rifle and she's pointing a gun at your chest.

She looks down at you curiously, "You didn't kill me."

"Where were you hiding?" you try to avoid the topic.

"On top of the lockers," she points the hand not holding your weapon and doesn't take her eyes off of you. "Why are you in here alone?"

"Karofsky sent me in by myself, I think they went upstairs," it comes out a breath, and she figures out that you're having a hard time breathing so she scoots onto your stomach, taking your rifle with her, slinging it behind her back one handed.

"Why didn't you shoot me?" she asks again, watching you carefully, and you feel nervous under her stare, under her body.

"I would never shoot you."

The feeling in the air changes. Your voice was too soft. Too sincere.

"Oh, come on," she laughs quietly, but she licks her lips like she's uneasy, "it's just training."

You don't say anything because even in training, you would never do anything that might cause her harm. It might be just a paintball, but to you it goes against every moral fiber of your existence.

"What if I was the enemy?" she asks quietly. She's trying to be an NCO and you think it's very brave of her.

"But you're not."

Something comes into her eyes, "How did you even know it was me?"

You've been caught.

You can't admit that you're in love with her eyes; that you've never seen anyone with that particular shade or shape, you wish you could paint the sky that color just so your world would be as bright as her eyes, but instead you say, "There's no one else in Headquarters that's as tall and gangly as you."

That earns you a heel digging into your hip, "Ow."

"I'm trying to decide if I want to kill you or take you hostage," the corner of her lip curls into a smirk, "and you're making the decision very easy."

"Please kill me," you groan. "Karofsky is going shove his foot up my ass anyway, and I'd rather people think I went down fighting."

"You should have killed me when you had the chance then," she chuckles, low and deep in her chest and her body radiates with the sound and dissipating air in her lungs, making her move, ever so faintly on top of you.

You shake your head, banishing the impure, unprofessional, thoughts creeping into your brain, "I'd rather shoot myself in the foot."

Her smirk turns into a grin and she's turning at the waist to look at your feet. Suddenly, taking a paintball point blank in the foot doesn't seem nearly as appealing.

"No don't—" you sit up, reaching out like you could have stopped her.

Your sudden movement, her awkward position on her toes—trying to keep most of her weight off of you—and the pull of your weapon on her back makes her overbalance and she doubles back towards you, taking a hold of your vest collar to steady herself. When you felt her start to fall, your hands clutched onto the material at her waist, feet drawing up so your knees catch her back as she tilted to try to catch her.

Now that she's in your lap, her thighs clenched around your waist, about a head taller by the position, and looking down at you with those blue eyes, you think you can die happy. You'll even let her be the one to do it. Her breath washes across your ballistic glasses and fogs the lens for a moment before it disappears again, giving you an unobstructed view of her face, hovering so close to yours.

The expression in her eyes is unreadable. Her face is as mysterious as it is memorizing and you lift your hands off of her waist and hold them out to the side, palms out in surrender.

"Please don't shoot me in the foot," you can't help the smile that comes to your face, you'll remember this moment for the rest of your life.

She studies your smile, or maybe she's just looking at your lips, you don't think you can handle the truth.

Slowly she says, "Please don't shoot me in the foot..?"

She's prompting you for something and you're too lost in the smell of her, a lingering trace of peppermint and antiperspirants to know what she wants you to say. If you did, you'd say it.

You'd say anything.

The pistol in her hands taps at your vest, "Is that how you address a Non-Commissioned Officer?"

You're sure she can feel you tremble under her. Her eyebrows twitch like she does. You want to grab her hips, roll her onto her back, and get her to address you by something other than Lopez. Instead, you lick your lips and offer, "Please, don't shoot me in the foot, _Sergeant_."

Her voice is just a trace huskier than its usual tone when she grins, "That's more like it."

For a second you think you're dreaming, and then her eyes blink into a different kind of focus, like she just remembered something very important.

There's a click.

The sting in your foot is all the proof you need to know that this is very real. Your cry of pain blends in with her laughter and melody is masochistically beautiful.

You collapse back, helmet hitting the floor, and hands covering your watering eyes. You want to swear, curse loudly, but you simply take a deep breath and bask in her weight on your hips. She brought you both back into the harsh reality that this is so borderline inappropriate and this is the closest you'll ever get to her.

"Are you alright?" her voice is a tickle in the back of your mind, filtering past the dull throbbing pain in your foot.

"Mmhm."

She just shot you in the foot. You'd let her do it again.

"Well, on your feet then," she lifts up, keeping the weapon squared to your chest, stepping back to give you space to stand. When you don't move as fast as she would like she kicks the sole of your boot softly, "Come on, you infidel."

You snort at that, standing up and keeping your hands where she can see them.

"Give me one second," she smirks, and tucking your weapon into the sash on her hips, she uses both hands to arrange the headscarf back in its proper place with practiced motion. You wait patiently because you're a good sport like that.

You're so busy watching her that you don't hear the footsteps in the doorway. You do hear the click of a safety.

"No," it comes out more to yourself than any sort of exclamation.

SGT Karofsky doesn't even look your way, he's raising his weapon to SSG Pierce, who's standing there without any gear, without a clue, without the peace of mind to surrender—not that Karofsky would ever give her that chance, he's out for the kill—and those sim-rounds hurt.

They hurt like a bitch through the thick leather of your boot. How would they feel with nothing on but a few layers of cloth?

"No!"

He gets a shot off before you can move, it hits SSG Pierce in the hip and she hisses, looking up, her hands already going for your nine mil, but she notices you getting between her and the guy shooting.

She notices; he doesn't.

You take four sim-rounds, before he stops. Unfortunately, your vest doesn't catch all of them and your forearm is going to have a huge welt on it tomorrow.

"What the fuck, Lopez?" he yells, looking at you like you're crazy.

You have to be crazy to say what you do, "What, it's not like you weren't gonna get me killed anyway, at least it's your bullet this time."

He makes this strangled noise, his face flushing with anger. He doesn't know what to do, so he decides to take his anger out on the pretend terrorist in the corner.

"Don't shoot her," you put your hand up when he moves, "she'll surrender."

"Fuck that hippie shit," sidestepping you, he raises his weapon again. "Prisoners are too much work."

"Stop—" SSG Pierce is reaching for you, trying to keep you from stepping in front of her again, but it's too late.

He hits you in the shoulder this time, barely missing your vest and it _hurts_, and you've had enough, "Shoot me again and I'll fucking kill you!"

That gets his attention off of shooting SSG Pierce and onto you. You don't like the look in his eyes, or the way he's coming at you.

"I'm so sick," he shoves you against the wall, "of your attitude, Lopez."

"Hey!" SGG Pierce tries to get between you both but she can't dislodge the forearm across your collar, "Get off her."

"Back off, Headquarters."

She rips the headscarf off her face, "That's _Sergeant _Headquarters, and I said get off!"

This time, when she pushes him, she has help from whoever just ran into the room. Karofsky stumbles back but is able to keep on his feet.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

SFC Fabray came out of nowhere and you're so screwed. Your stomach bottoms out and you're glad that the wall is behind you to keep you from scurrying away from the hell-bent look in her eyes.

SGT Karofsky straightens his vest, looking like he knows this isn't going to end well, "I was trying to take down the threat when Lopez went all suicidal on me and jumped in front of my gun."

Her eyes are on you, picking out each and every blue paint mark on your vest and uniform.

"You shot your own soldier?" she looks disgusted and the tone of her voice makes your skin crawl. It's amazing, how she can walk into a room and completely own it, even SSG Pierce knows enough to keep quiet right now.

"She stepped in my line of fire on purpose," he points to you like this is all your fault and you're pretty sure from where he's standing, it is.

"There's six marks on this soldier, Karofsky," SFC Fabray takes a step closer to him, "you misfired six times?"

"I—"

"And that doesn't even begin to explain why I heard you disrespecting a sergeant senior to you," she moves slowly closer, her voice getting louder with each step, "while you manhandled a soldier, on top of not even addressing me by my rank when you fucking speak to me!"

He finally gets the hint and puts his hands behind his back at parade rest, "Sergeant, I—"

"Shut the hell up," she's holds up her hand, and turns to you, "Lopez, get out. Stand in the hall and wait for me."

"Yes, Sergeant," you scramble out of the room, ducking around the wall and bracing yourself against it.

Only then do you dare to breathe. Shit. You're in such shit, all sorts of shit; shit with Karofsky, shit with Fabray, shit with the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. You disrespected him, you made a blatant safety violation, hell—you threatened to kill him. So much shit. This is it, you're getting written up, again. Goddamn it, you were doing so well with this whole good solider thing.

You take another breath, about to start mumbling under your breath, but you pause. You can hear SFC Fabray's voice, it's bounding off the walls and into the hallway.

"Sergeant Pierce, please tell me what happened here."

SSG Pierce gives her the run down from when SGT Karofsky came into the room. She accurately describes each of his shots, and how things got so physical. She tells her everything.

"So let's recap, just so we're all clear here. You engaged a target without a clear sector of fire—"

"Lopez—"

"Specialist Lopez will account for her actions," SFC Fabray cuts him off harshly. "Right now, we're talking about yours."

"Yes, Sergeant."

She lists off every offense; the safety violations, fratricide, threatening you physically, and his insubordination to SSG Pierce. It wasn't looking very good for him.

"You're done, Karofsky, you hear me? You're fucking done. I thought if I gave you enough time, this training might be able to sink through your thick skull, but you've proven me incredibly wrong. You're not fit to lead," she's being brutal, and as much as you think she's completely right, it still makes you squirm. "I'm not sending soldiers to war with you, I'll kill you myself before I let you kill one of them."

He's dismissed, and comes barreling out of the room. You eye him carefully because he could very well take this out on you. He doesn't even give you a passing glance and while you're thankful, you know this isn't over.

"Lopez, get in here."

Your stomach knots violently and you take a deep breath before reentering the room. SFC Fabray is standing at a window, her arms crossed over her chest and looking more bothered than angry. SSG Pierce is standing near one of the wall lockers, folding her headscarf needlessly, not looking at anyone.

You go to parade rest and say, "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Why did you step in front of his line of fire?"

That was the action that started this whole thing. You need to come up with a reason that justified all of this.

"I didn't think it was safe, Sergeant," you look around the room, "he was standing right inside the door, that's like, five or six feet from where Sergeant Pierce was standing, and those sim-rounds hurt, you know?"

Now they're both looking at you, you can't get a read on their expressions.

"And she's not wearing any protective gear, Sergeant, so…" you trail off, not sure if that was good enough or not. On a whim you touch a throbbing spot on your arm, "I mean, I can already feel the fucking golf ball in my arm from one of those shots. I took most in the vest but…"

"You think SSG Pierce isn't tough enough to take a few sim-rounds?"

The medic makes a displeased noise at the question, not in her own defense, but in yours. She doesn't know why SFC Fabray is giving you a hard time.

"No, Sergeant," you don't know what makes push your luck, "just because I worried about her safety doesn't mean I think any less of her. She's a badass, taking a stupid sim-round for her isn't going to change that, it just makes me look like bleeding heart. If anything, it's a compliment because I sure as hell wouldn't take one for about ninety percent of the company."

You're pretty sure no one in the room is breathing. SSG Pierce is watching SFC Fabray as if she's worried for your safety. SFC Fabray stares at you for a long moment, because she knows what you're talking about; how she's been fighting with SSG Pierce because she doesn't quite know how to react to people worrying about her.

Then she's moving your way.

You swallow thickly, barely able to keep her eyes as she walks towards you. Even at your tallest height she's still got at least an inch on you, not that it would matter, her presence is big enough to make Karofsky cower. You'd like to think that you have more gumption than Karofsky.

There's a scraping noise to your side and you realize that it's SSG Pierce's boot against the concrete, a subtle reminder that she's in the room. It's enough to draw SFC Fabray's eyes. They have some sort of stare down, speaking without words.

"Lopez, go out to the trucks," your Platoon Sergeant orders you evenly, "get a five-gallon water jug, make sure it's completely full, and don't let it touch the ground until I come and get you."

Your heart sinks but you give her the proper response and start to turn, before you get away her hand grabs your vest and makes you look at you again.

"Stand somewhere Karofsky can see you, but not close enough to tempt him, you understand? Make sure there are other people around too."

"Yes, Sergeant."

You grab your weapons from SSG Pierce, who gives you this look; it's sympathetic and proud all in one, and it's totally worth carrying around a five-gallon water jug. As you slip out you here SFC Fabray say, "I've been an ass, I'm sorry."

* * *

Your forearms are burning.

You've been standing here with this stupid jug in your arms for like, twenty minutes and it's not even right. Karofsky is sitting over there in the shade with some other idiots and they're laughing at you. They're not even trying to be subtle about it. They're straight up laughing.

Well, he's trying to laugh. You can see it in his eyes that he's scared. He's waiting for the other foot to fall, he's waiting for whatever SFC Fabray has in mind for him, because if he's not going to be a team leader anymore… then what's he going to do?

You'd much rather take this twenty minutes of suffering than whatever she has waiting for him.

"Excuse me," a voice catches your attention.

It's LT Berry, walking towards you with her notebook in her hand and clearly confused at your choice of recreational hobbies.

"Yes, ma'am?" you shift the water jug in her arms, slouching a bit so that some of the weight is resting on the tops of your thighs, "How can I help you?"

The question comes out a little stale because you're carrying this huge thing and there's really nothing you can do for her right now.

"I was only wondering if you've seen Sergeant Fabray," she looks you over again, "and also, why are you holding that?"

"She's in that building on the left talking to SSG Peirce," you spare one precious finger to point, "and I'm holding this because she told me to, ma'am."

"Sergeant Fabray told you to hold this?"

She doesn't look like she really believes you and that annoys the crap out of you because why else would you be holding this stupid thing?

"Yes, ma'am."

She's about to ask the obvious question, the one that will make you admit you're being punished. Fortunately, she notices the sergeant she was looking for walking into the courtyard, senior medic by her side, and smiles on their faces.

At least you did something right.

"Sergeant Fabray," the Platoon Leader gets her attention and they head towards you both. You squirm, trying to look like you're not straining under the jug's weight and as dignified as possible.

After a salute, SFC Fabray asks, "You needed something, ma'am?"

"Yes, we need to go over some of the…" she trails off, her curiosity getting the better of her, "why did you tell this soldier to hold this?"

Now they all look at you. You avoid SSG Pierce's eyes because you know she's good enough to see the way your arms are shaking and sweat collected on your forehead. She's gotten rid of her terrorist outfit and she's lucky that her uniform didn't get the sim-round paint on it; you'll be scrubbing for hours to get it out of your gear.

"She's learning," SFC Fabray says like it's obvious.

"She's _learning_," LT Berry repeats skeptically, she doesn't want to tell her Platoon Sergeant that she's full of shit in front of a soldier, but that's what her eyes are saying. You're not the only one to notice either.

"How about you guys can take care of your business," SSG Pierce gestures to you, "I can finish this up."

SFC Fabray gives you one last look, oddly imploring yet still guarded. As they walk off you catch her say something about finding a name for that position they've needed to fill. When they're out of earshot, SSG Pierce takes the jug from your hands. You let her because you're not sure how much longer you can hold it and you're pretty sure SFC Fabray isn't going to challenge her once they just made up.

"What truck did you get this out of?" she asks, ready to follow your lead.

You turn, heading towards your truck and trying to shake the feeling back into your arms. Do you say something? What kind of casual conversation is appropriate after taking a few sim-rounds for her, watching your team leader get fired, and not to mention everything that happened before that.

Keeping quiet is the best policy. When you get to your truck she straps the jug into its place on the back.

"I um…" she speaks softly, not looking at you as she wipes her hands on her uniform trousers, "you didn't have to do that in there."

You're not sure what she means, so you shrug, looking around to see if anyone is around. They're not. You're the only two people, lost in a fleet of trucks. That makes this impossibly more a tense for you.

Being alone with her is always the best and worst thing that could ever happen to you.

"But I totally appreciate it," her hands are moving to the hem of her jacket, drawing up the material there. You're startled, you want to look away, as if she's being indecent, but that would be weird right? Would that be overreacting? She pulls up the thin material of her tan tee shirt and now you understand. "This really hurts."

Her finger runs along the welt forming just above her hipbone, a vibrant red against such prettily pale skin. The sag of her pants is just… you never knew it could be this attractive. Her belt sits low, purposefully adjusted to allow room over her hips. It's completely unauthorized. You love it and the way it exposes that brilliant cut of her abdomen, dipping past the hem of her trousers and to a place that you can only visit in your dreams.

"I feel so bad that I got you in the foot," she looks up from her wound and you meet her eyes a second later. "Does it feel alright?"

Honestly, you can't feel anything in your body by your heart, pounding wistfully in your chest. "It's fine, Sergeant. Really, I'd rather take a shot from you than Karofsky any day."

"You didn't have to get in his way," she tucks her tee shirt back into her pants and fixes her jacket. You mourn for the loss of that sight.

"I had the feeling he wouldn't be a one shot one kill kind of guy."

"No, he really lit you up," she takes a small step towards you.

"It wasn't that bad," you insist. "Nothing I can't handle."

She just stares at you, a lopsided smile on her face while you try to figure out what's so funny.

"You girls," she shakes her head, "always trying to make sure everyone knows you're so tough."

The blood rushes to your face and you duck your head, trying to hide behind the bill of your patrol cap.

"She didn't want to have to punish you for what you did in there," SSG Pierce tells you honestly, "but how would it look if she hadn't? She has to be fair, you know?"

You nod because she's right, that's just the way things go. You have the idea that she needed to put on a show for Karofsky so he wouldn't think Fabray was being too easy on you. You don't blame her for wanting to cover her ass from favoritism.

"I hope you know that you weren't being punished for what you said to her… at the end there," she doesn't really know how to put it. You know she's talking about how you called out SFC Fabray's nonsense.

Scuffing your boot in the dirt, you mumble, "She was looking at me like she wanted to kill me."

"You know too much about her and she's not sure if she likes it," she scratches her elbow, smiling softly, "but she's glad that it's you and not someone else."

SFC Fabray is a private person, yet, you've seemed to catch a glimpse past the badass Platoon Sergeant mask.

"She can be so stubborn about letting people in," her eyes fall to the ground, "I guess, that might be something I have to work on too."

There's a small inflection in her voice when she says that, a subtle shyness that makes it sound so much more personal to you. Her eyes glance up, shining and hopeful, making you feel like she's talking about you.

Could she possibly want to open up to you?

She smiles then, a secretive kind of private smile that takes the pain out of your arms and makes you forget yourself, and you know.

It's a promise.


	16. AR 608 Dash 47

AR 608-47: Army Family Action Plan.

* * *

You're three weeks out and things are getting hectic.

Sergeant Anderson is doing a very good job at getting you and Evan's prepared. The first thing he did was shake your hand and ask if you if there was anything he can do for you.

He asked about your pre-deployment arrangements and where you're planning to store the stuff you aren't taking with you. He makes it appoint to make sure you have the paperwork for vehicle storage on post, Evans is planning on having his family keep his stuff and his truck so you're pretty much the only thing SGT Anderson has to worry about, but he takes care of you. He gives you time to run to the bank and set up the allotments you need for your car payment, and tells you that if you take your deployment orders to your phone company they'll put your service on pause and restart the contract in a year no questions asked.

The whole thing is kind of blowing your mind.

You remember your family getting ready to go away on the few vacations you've taken; arranging for someone to pick up your mail, making sure the perishables were out of the fridge, silly crap like that.

Now, you're trying to set up your life so you can leave for a year. It's uncomplicated for you, because you're a single solider with nothing to her name but everything you can fit in your barracks room. The only financial responsibilities you have are to your car and your cellphone. Other people have to worry about the families they're leaving behind; if their wives have powers of attorneys over their bank accounts, if they're staying on post or going to live with extended family for a year. It's all so complicated.

You're glad to be single right now.

You wrote a will, had it notarized, and you're sending it to your mom. If everything does go wrong, you're hoping the life insurance policy you took out with the Army is enough to keep her from working too much harder for too much longer.

But then again, if she suddenly has more time on her hands, it's not like you're going to be around for her to spend it with you.

A week ago you turned in the paperwork saying you're going to Garrett, Kentucky. You should have known SFC Fabray was smart enough to figure out it's the same address that Evans is heading to. You hate how the military tracks your every move. She asked you about five times if you were sure you didn't want to go home. You're not sure why she's in your business, or why it matters.

You assured her that you're not going to regret your choice.

But you're still thinking about it, even as you're escaping the company area for the day.

Evans was just roped into a stupid inventory detail and SGT Anderson told you to scram before your squad leader could get to you too. Normally you would wait for your friend, but he waved you off when you offered to help. It's fine by you, it's been an unusually long Friday and you're so ready to get out of this uniform. Your foot is barely out the backdoor before you stop.

SFC Fabray is walking towards you and you find this odd for a few reasons.

Somehow, even though the company is only allotted two weeks off before deployment, SFC Fabray managed to convince the Commander to let her go a week early. That's an impressive feat; you think it has something to do with First Sergeant Sylvester. So your Platoon Sergeant has been gone for the last few days and, to your knowledge, shouldn't be in uniform and heading into work. You figure she's on her way to the big meeting that's being set up in the conference room, but that doesn't explain the kid walking next to her on the sidewalk.

You're not even sure if kid is the right word. Preteen maybe? Tween? She has to be like twelve. Ten at the least. She's in that awkward age before puberty and she's pulling it off flawlessly, dressed in a pair of distressed skinny jeans and a band tee. You're not sure if tweens should really be fans of Tegan and Sara but you wish you were that stylish when you were that younger.

The last thing you notice is that she's the absolute spitting image of SFC Fabray. Her hair, much longer and pulled back into a low ponytail, is the same dusty blonde. Her eyes are looking around with an intelligent observation you first noticed about your Platoon Sergeant. She's probably already perfected the Fabray death stare.

Your Platoon Sergeant is sporting that exact look and you're half tempted to go back inside and take your chances on the detail to avoid her. She's probably upset about being called into work and, while you don't blame her, you're not sure if she's in the mood to take it out on someone or not.

You don't want to be that someone.

She's seen you before you can retreat and waves you over. You move towards her, trying to ignore the way her miniature is staring at you.

"Have you been released?" she asks in way of greeting.

"Yes, Sergeant," you start to go to a respectful parade rest, but she waves her hand.

"Relax," she doesn't seem to want to do the Army thing right now, so you stand in front of her like as casually as possible. "Are they setting up for that briefing?"

"Last I saw, Lieutenant Berry was getting her things ready in the platoon office," you tell her because you're certain that they're going to need to talk before the meeting.

"Alright," SFC Fabray looks down at her companion. "We have a TV in the day room, you want to watch it while I'm in my meeting?"

The girl shakes her head slowly, her eyes shifting to a corner of the courtyard, "I'd rather stay outside."

You both follow her eyes and find the miniature obstacle course that she's looking at. It's nothing spectacular. There's a line of logs making a balance beam, each one was raised a little higher, an inclined wall, and a few pull up bars. The most interesting thing is the rope hanging from a wooden frame; a set of Air Assault wings sitting pretty on top.

SFC Fabray meets your eyes and there's a question in them.

Instead of answering her, you ask the girl, "You think you can do a pull up?"

Her eyes slide slowly back to you and the expression on her face is screaming, _are you doubting me? _You want to laugh, somehow you keep it to yourself and tell your Platoon Sergeant, "I can hang out here, until after your meeting."

"You're sure?" she looks to the building, knowing she's probably already late and maternally hesitant to leave. "I mean, she doesn't exactly need a babysitter, but it would make me feel better."

"I got this," you tell her as unwavering as possible.

"Alright," SFC Fabray, squats a little, getting at eye level to the girl, "Beth, this is my friend, Santana."

You're floored that she introduced you like that. For all you expected, she could have called you her servant and it would almost be correct. You try to rationalize that she sees so many documents with your full name on them that it shouldn't be surprising that she knows your first name and it might be weird to explain the rank structure to a kid, but it's still really weird hearing it from her.

"She's gonna make sure all the creepy soldiers leave you alone."

Beth nods, giving you a once over that only kids can get away with.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," your Platoon Sergeant promises both of you. Then, to you she whispers, "Thanks for this, come get me if you need anything. At all."

"I will," you assure her, starting over to the obstacle course because Beth is already halfway there.

When you step into the sand pit that surrounds the obstacles, Beth doesn't even acknowledge you. She's too focused on the pull up bars. The fact that she's not quite tall enough for them doesn't seem to bother her. There's a block nailed into the post and she steps onto it, holding the wooded column tight. You don't offer her any help, because if she's anything like SFC Fabray, she won't want it.

"If you hurt yourself, I'm going to get my butt kicked," you smile wryly when she looks over at you. She looks like she wants to laugh, instead she jumps.

You hold your breath while she's was in the air, and now that she's dangling from the bar, you're not sure if it's any better. She looks like a monkey, swinging her legs to get momentum enough to scoot into the middle of the bar. Her face is reddening from the effort, and you can see how tight her jaw is as she pulls herself up.

"Holy crap," you laugh, this kid is doing a better pull up than some of the soldiers you know are capable of.

She does two good ones, and a third that's almost there before dropping to the sand and standing tall, brushing her bangs into place like it's no big thing.

"You play sports?" you lean causally on the logs, thinking that she's a mini bad ass.

"I dance," she tells you, hiking up her studded belt.

"Like ballet?"

"And other stuff. I play basketball in the winter."

"Nice," you give her an impressed nod, "and I meant it, if you want to mess around out here you have to be careful."

Beth lifts herself onto the inclined wall like you didn't even say anything. When she's perched at the top she asks, "She's not really your friend is she?"

"No, she's kind of my boss," you shrug, happy to let her know she should be proud of SFC Fabray, "well, my boss's, boss's, boss actually. Your mom is kind of a big deal around here."

"She's not my mom."

You really weren't expecting that one, "She's not?"

"I know," she almost sighs, looking at the sand and wiping her hands on her pants. "I we look a lot alike, and she has the same color eyes as me, and she likes to suck on her baby carrots too, but she's not my mom…"

She looks at you and you're not sure what to do with her eyes. They're as guarded as a twelve year old can be. Kids are so frank and honest sometimes and she doesn't really know how to mask everything she's feeling yet. You simply wait for her to continue, caught between that troubled expression and not wanting to invade your Platoon Sergeant's private family.

"They tell me she's my aunt," she looks towards the building her not-mom walked into, "and I think it's because she's in the Army."

"What do you mean?" you prod quietly, tilting your head. You're not sure if the only reason she's talking about this with you is because she doesn't have anyone else to talk to. You remember being a kid without anyone to talk to. You remember feeling special when someone actually seemed to care.

"She's goes away a lot and my mom, in New York, she leaves the news on when she thinks I'm not paying attention. I know what it means to deploy. I know what war is and that not everyone comes back."

She jumps down and walks over to the low end of the log balance beam. You follow, hovering off to the side.

"Maybe they like, think it would be easier for me," Beth ponders with this blithe eye roll, sarcastic to the core and a mirror of your Platoon Sergeant, "if she was only my aunt and not my mom."

It chills you, to know that this little girl is aware of things like that, and how easily they could affect her life.

"You think all that's true?" you ask her carefully, joining her on the log beam, following along slowly.

She nods, the soles of her converse gliding along the log and she steps easily onto the next one, "I'm not stupid."

"I doubt that's what they think—"

She turns so abruptly that she almost loses her balance, "Then what is it? Why are they doing this?"

You swallow hard.

This… is so not your forte. You have no idea what is really going on with SFC Fabray and Beth's mom in New York. No ghastly idea. The only thing you know is that this kid has convinced herself that she's right. Her eyes—angry, frustrated, dejected, and scared all in one—are _imploring_ you to answer the question you know she's been asking herself for a long time.

Taking a steady breath, you lower yourself until your sitting on the log, your boots in the sand on either side. She follows your lead, her toes hovering an inch off the ground. You have to admit that preteen angst is adorable on her, with her arms crossed tightly over her chest and her face trying so hard to be indifferent. She's almost on SFC Fabray's level.

You give her another two years.

"Look, Beth," you look her in the eye and tell it to her straight, "I don't know who's your mom, the one you got back in New York or my boss, but I got one question for you."

Her eyes narrow a little, waiting.

"Do they love you?"

You watch the corners of her lips tuck down, a line between her eyebrows appear, "Well, _yeah_."

She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world and there's this pull in your chest. You're not sure if it's because you're so glad that she can be so sure, or if you wish you had the same answer about your actual parents.

You put away your own feelings and focus on her, "Then what's it matter?"

She frowns even more at that.

"If what you said is true," you continue slowly, "then they're only trying to protect you, right? You can't hate them for wanting to pretend that you haven't gotten smart enough to figure them out yet."

The girl doesn't look away from you. It's like she thinks that if she stares at you long enough she'll be able to figure out if you're lying or telling her want she wants to hear.

You mean every word, so it's no trouble to hold her eyes and tell her, "And trust me, Quinn loves protecting people. That's why she joined the Army and she's really good at it."

Her shoulders slack, eyes falling to the log between you.

"How often do you see her?"

"Only sometimes, she's only ever missed my birthday once," she mumbles. "We write to each other all the time. She's pretty much the best pen pal ever."

"Yeah?" you smirk a little at that. "I've never had a pen pal."

She looks up at you with her nose all scrunched up, "That's kind of sad."

You snort rather ungracefully, "What do you guys write about?"

"A bunch of stuff; mostly books, and school, some things are easier to write about, instead of talking about them," her feet start to move, barely swinging, "you know?"

"I do."

"I mean, sometimes I have to look up some of the words she uses, but like, that's probably why I never have to study for my vocab tests," she sends you a small smile.

You return it, glad that she's finally relaxed again, "Told you you're smart."

That's the end of your serious conversation. You ask her about the kinds of books she reads and you don't have to say another word up until the time SFC Fabray comes outside. She jogs down the stairs and walks across the grass to you. You're watching her, and she's watching Beth.

You know, in that one look, Beth is a very smart girl.

She's her mother's daughter.

* * *

The mommy drama earlier today made you want to try again.

You call, one last time, because there's still time to change your plans and go home instead of with off with Evans. You miss your mom, and you want to see her, and more than that… you want her to want to see you too. The conversation doesn't go as planned. It's stiff, more awkward than it should be, and by the time you bring up how you're leaving for Iraq in less than a month she's already shut you out.

This time she flat out tells you to stay away from Ohio.

"_I wouldn't want you to waste your days off. I'm sure you have plenty of friends you can spend your time with. When you were little, you always spent more time with your friends than you did at home, anyway."_

You don't remind her that you only did that because it was easier than sitting at home alone while she was at her office. It looks like nothing has changed.

You shouldn't have expected it too, but you did, because this is _Iraq_ and not a causal visit to the lake.

"Are you sure you can't get away, just for a weekend? My company is having a going away ceremony," you squeeze your eyes shut, praying to keep your voice from sounding too desperate, "and we're having this family day before we ship out. You can be back in Lima Sunday night."

_"Santana, if I were to go... it would break my heart to have to see you leave me again so soon."_

"I bet it's going to be totally lame, but I'd still want you to be—"

"_No, no," _she hushes you gently, _"I'm sure it will be a wonderful ceremony, Santana… but with my cases, and your grandmother, she's not well enough to travel…"_

You hear it in her voice.

She's not coming.

This ache, a horrible weight clawing at your body, making lip tremble and your shoulders slump against the back of your desk chair; it's too familiar. You should have known. You shouldn't have dared to hope.

"_It's best that I stay here and imagine that you won't be leaving at all. I love you Santana, but I am not strong enough to see you go."_

She hangs up.

You stare at your phone until the display dims.

Something inside of you dies with the light.

* * *

You phone ringing at this hour of night, in the middle of a recently pirated 1960s thriller, _Brides of Blood_, is never a good thing. You almost ignore it, because it's rounding on midnight and you haven't left your bed since your mother broke your heart.

Whatever it is, it can't be worse than that.

Sighing, you pause the movie and reach for the phone. You can't ignore it, even if you don't recognize the number, in the off chance that it's some NCO trying to get ahold of you. If they call you in to work for some god awful reason, you're going to be so pissed.

"Hello?"

"_Lopez? Is that you?"_

"Yeah," you frown, the voice sounds familiar, but there's no way it could be—

"_This is Sergeant Pierce,"_ she sounds kind of on edge, and you're already getting out of your bed. Because you feel like you need to be ready, for whatever she might need. _"Are you at the barracks?"_

"Yeah, I'm in my room," you're slipping on a pair of track pants and socks.

"_Have you been drinking?"_

"What? No, no I'm sober," you're already searching for your car keys, because that's the first thing you think of; if she needs you sober, that means she needs a driver. "What's wrong?"

"_Can you…" _you hear her hesitate, _"can you do me such a huge favor?"_

You don't even have to think about it, "Anything."

"_We don't have a lot of time," _she tells you, it sounds like she's on the move too, _"First Sergeant just called all the Platoon Sergeants and they're coming to the barracks to break up some sort of party going on."_

You glance out your window, sure enough there are about thirty soldiers in the courtyard, surrounding a gazebo and the few picnic tables. They've been loud as hell and the music they've been blasting is just atrocious. You're not surprised the sergeant on staff duty called to break it up.

"_Neither Flanagan or Motta are picking up their phones,"_ SSG Pierce continues, _"really, I'm only worried about Motta because she's underage. Have you seen her at all? Do you know if she's there?"_

Your eyes search the crowd. She's actually easy to spot, dancing on the table like that, a red solo cup in her hand and three guys cheering her on, "I'm only guessing, but from my window she looks plastered."

"_Shit. First Sergeant's out for blood."_

She's worried about her soldier and you're worried about her.

If Motta gets into trouble, SSG Pierce will get it too because Motta is her responsibility. You've never understood how that's supposed to make sense. NCOs aren't with their soldiers every second of every day, so how can they be held responsible when they're soldiers act stupid off duty? It's ridiculous, but it's the way things go, she'll be standing in front of First Sergeant with Private Motta when the time comes.

You want to save her from that.

"I'll go grab her," your hand is already on your doorknob, "throw her in my car, and we'll take off until the raid is over."

There's a pause, and you can tell she's having a moral dilemma about what the right thing to do really is. Protect her soldier or insist that she needs to face up to the consequences of her actions?

"_Morally, I can't ask you to do that, Lopez, but if… you… randomly decide to drive to a local fast food joint and want company? I would happily recommend Private Motta. She makes great table conversation, ask her about her mob conspiracies, I dare you."_

"Don't worry, Sergeant," you laugh quietly at her attempts to be covert, push through the door, and step into the courtyard, "you're integrity is safe with me, but I'm about to pull Motta out of the fray, I'll call you when she's safe."

There's the sound of a door, _"Text me, they're calling the squad leaders and section sergeants to come in too, so I might not be able to answer, but seriously, thank you… I don't want to see her get into trouble so soon."_

She's grateful and you can hear it in her voice, you're doing her a solidly amazing favor, and she trusts you with it. The medic knows that while she couldn't come out and ask you to do this for her, she knew enough to expect you to offer. She knows she can count on you and you're not going to let her down.

"No problem," you push through the door as you cut the connection, shoving your phone in your pocket.

The noise and bodies makes you uncomfortable. You want to get in and get out before the senior sergeants raid the place. Motta is still on the table and you push your way through a group of guys to get to her. As you walk, you're looking around for anyone else you care about that might need a heads up. Thankfully, no one from your platoon is out here making a fool of themselves. You're not sure what Evans is up to tonight, and Flanagan looks like he's missing from this action too.

"Lopez!" one of the guys calls as you pass, "crack a beer, baby!"

You ignore them and finally make it to the picnic table, reaching up to tap Motta on her calf, "Hey, Motta."

She looks down at you, blinking to a small recognition. While she knows you from around the company, you've never spoken… not in friendly terms anyway.

It doesn't matter if you're friends or not, "You gotta come with me, alright?"

She steps down onto the bench and sits on the table top, crossing her legs at the knee, "And why should I do that? So you can give me your stink eye and tell me I'm too girly to be in the Army?"

That comment bugs you, "I'm girly enough and I can still pull my weight, you bat your eyelashes and get a guy to pull it for you."

She lowers the cup from her smiling lips, she waves her cup around to the men around the courtyard, "Look at them, cute_and_ useful. You can't fault me for being resourceful."

"A woman after my own heart," Corporal Puckerman slides onto the bench, throwing his arm her shoulders. She looks at him like he has less reason to talk to her than you do. "And let me tell you, I can be very useful in certain, horizontal situations."

You almost gag, but realize that time is pressing and you need to get out of here, "Back off, Puckerman, she's not interested."

"Where's your boyfriend?" he scoffs at you. "Got Evans tied to the bed upstairs? Do you keep his balls in a box or are they hanging on your wall?"

"If you keep talking, I'll have yours in a jar by the end of the night," you take Motta's arm and coax her off the table. She comes easily enough, probably accepting your reason as good enough as any to get away from him.

He mumbles something under his breath as you walk away and remind yourself that SSG Pierce's mission is more important than your pride.

"Where are we going?" she's slightly wobbly on her feet. "Don't think something's happening here, because I'd rather take my chances with homeboy over there."

"Please," you roll your eyes as you make it into the parking lot, taking the drink from her hand and tossing it carelessly to the ground. "I don't slum with barracks rats."

"Rude."

"Just get in the car," you hit your remote to unlock your car and walk over to the driver's side.

"Wait, hold up," she stops next to the passenger's door, but doesn't move to open it, "why am I getting in a car with you? You hate me."

"I don't hate you."

It doesn't come out as convincing as you wanted and she gives you a look to match, putting her hands on her hips, one eye disappearing into her hairline.

"Get in the damn car, First Sergeant is on her way with all the higher ups and you're underage," you get in the car, slamming the door behind you.

She follows rather quickly, "What are you waiting for? Let's get out of here."

"Keep your pants on, princess," you start the car and back out of your spot.

As you drive out of the parking lot you swear you can recognize most of the cars driving in, including the jeep. It prompts you to take out your phone and send a quick text,_"Got Motta, heading to BK. Txt me when it's clear?"_

You drive off post and it's a short enough drive to the closest Burger King. She's not eating in your car so you park and make your way inside.

"So, how did you know they were coming?" Motta asks, looking from you to the menu displayed over the cashier.

"I'm psychic," you brush off you question and order a vanilla milkshake. "What do you want?"

She orders some triple stacked monstrosity with bacon and two layers of cheese. It's annoying because you know she doesn't work out as much as you so her figure must come naturally. Whatever, she's skinny-fat and you can still kick her ass.

Since you're the only two people in at this hour, your food doesn't take that long and you're in a booth before she can ask you another stupid question. You pull your phone out to read SSG Pierce's reply, _"Will do."_

There's a little smiley face added onto the end and you stare at it, wondering if she really smiled or if that was just a polite emoticon for the sake of emoticons. In your head, she's smiling; it's beautiful, and it's meant for you. She's been smiling at you a lot in the week after that sim-round incident. Sometimes when you're actually talking to her, other times when you happen to see each other passing in the halls.

She'll smile.

It always takes you a moment to realize that she's smiling at you. You have to remind yourself to breathe, look calm, smile back, and not spaz out completely. Sometimes you succeed.

"So is that why weren't you at the party?" Motta is unwrapping her burger and you can see the grease. "You knew it would get shut down by the NCOs?"

"No," your nose scrunches up at her meal. "I never go to those things. The guys at our company are all idiots and probably even worse when they're drunk."

"Is that why you keep to Evans?" she quirks an eyebrow. "I've talked to him a few times. He has that southern gentleman thing going for him, it's kinda hot."

"He's off limits," you say dryly, stabbing your spoon into the frosty. If there's a way to swirl a milkshake in an intimidating manner, you're doing it. "Don't waste your time."

She notices your attitude, and it only seems to encourage her, "What, are you two a thing?"

You take a spoonful of vanilla goodness, it's your treat for the week, "We're close."

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"No," you shake your head, "we're not."

"Why not?" she sounds genuinely surprised.

Frowning, you point your spoon at her, "Do you sleep with all of your friends?"

"That depends," she smirks, "are they cute?"

You can't tell if she's being serious or not so you just take another scoop of your milkshake and try to ignore the way she's putting away that burger.

Evans texts you, asking if you've seen the madness that's going on in the courtyard. You tell him that you saw all the NCOs driving in as you were leaving.

"_First Sergeant has the partiers in formation out front. They r checking IDs and found 2 underage. I hope they aren't from third platoon."_

You send a quick reply, _"Yeah, same here, Fabray will throw a fit when she gets back to work. You see Flanagan anywhere?"_

"_We've been playing COD, he's cool."_

You're glad that SSG Pierce doesn't have to worry about him. It's about forty minutes until Motta decided to stop trying to make conversation with you and has instead decided to eat as many orders of fries as she can until you get the message that it's clear. She assumes it will come from Evans.

When your phone buzzes, you're glad it's another text message from SSG Pierce, _"I want to come and get Motta. You at the Burger King right outside post? On 41A towards Hopkinsville?"_

"_That's the one."_

"_Be right there."_

You lick your lips, liking the way she's texting you and promising to see you soon.

In another world, you would have replied with a flirty message about how you couldn't wait to see her.

It doesn't take that long before she's walking through the door. Her eyes find yours instantly. There's a smile in them. She's in uniform, and pauses at the door to fix her hair after taking off her patrol cap, you think it's cute but the only thing out of place is the small curl forever falling out of her bun.

As she walks over her eyes harden, focused on her solider. Motta figures out that you're looking at someone over her shoulder and takes a glance. The french fry falls from her fingers.

"Shit," she ducks down in the bench like that's going to help, and hisses to you, "why the hell is she here?"

You give her a dry look, "Who do you think told me to get you out before you got an Article 15 for underage drinking?"

"I _knew_ you hated me," she grumbles, sitting up in her seat just as SSG Pierce steps up to the booth.

You have this crazy urge to stand—and not because it's gentlemanly when a woman approaches a table—because when and NCO addresses you, you should be standing. You want to show her that respect. You must have been obvious, because she looks at you and mouths the words, _you're fine._

You stay seated, and she slides into the booth next to Private Motta.

"Good evening, Motta," her voice is low and even.

"Evening, Sergeant," the junior medic mumbles. "How are you?"

"You know," she shrugs, eyeing the number of wrappers and fry cartons on the table, "it's close to one in the morning and I got called back to base because a bunch soldiers wanted to act like children… so I don't think I'm doing all that great right now."

Motta sends you a pleading look. There's nothing you can do for her.

"Luck enough, I was able to get a heads up before First Sergeant ran over to the barracks," SSG Pierce continues. "She found two soldiers that were drinking underage."

There's a pause, as PVT Motta tries to figure out what's going to happen next. You're kind of squirming in your seat too. While, you know Motta was in the wrong, you hate hearing that tone in SSG Pierce's voice; when her words are dripping with the soft disappointment that makes you ready to do anything to get back on her good side.

Motta can't even look at her.

The senior medic has had enough of that, "Motta, look at me when I'm talking to you."

Motta looks up and you look down, or at least you try.

"If Specialist Lopez hadn't gotten you out of the barracks, would there be three soldiers getting Article 15s tonight?"

You know that you're not supposed to be outright watching this exchange, and you would normally have enough decency to be polite, but SSG Pierce looks so hot right now. Her jaw is set, her lips thin and pursed, there's a threat in her eyes that simply _dares_ Motta to lie to her. She's asking for the truth. Granted, she already knows the truth, and giving Motta the opportunity to say it for herself isn't going to redeem her, but it will force her to take responsibility for her actions.

"Yes, Sergeant."

"I'm not a fan of paper trails, Motta," SSG Pierce tells her plainly. "When I was a soldier, NCOs tended to handle business in house, without the counseling statements and the Article 15s. You get those kinds of things attached to your name and they follow you around. You get delayed in promotion, you get passed up for schools, and really, I think it's kind of unfair, but I'm going to give you the option."

Motta looks at you, like you might be in on that secret too; you have no idea where she's going with this.

"You can take the Article 15 and extra duty that the other soldiers are getting," she leans back, crossing her arms over her chest, "or you can take your punishment, Sergeant Pierce style; no papers, no record, and no one will even know besides us three."

Motta takes the deal, "I'll do it your way, Sergeant."

Really, she doesn't have a choice, she would be stupid to take the written reprimand. SSG Pierce seems pleased with the answer anyway, and looks at you, "Can I waste one more hour of your night?"

One night of punishment SSG Pierce style?

You like the idea.

* * *

She had you leave your car in the Burger King parking lot and told you to get in her jeep, Motta is pouting in the back. You're not sure what she's planning, why she needs you, or why you feel so at ease in the passenger's seat of her jeep, but youre going to go with it because she needs you.

You're heading back onto post and as soon as she passes through the gate she pulls over. You cringe when you realize what's about to happen. It's the threat you've heard a thousand times, you've just never seen it done and you hope you'll never have to be the one doing it.

You feel bad for Motta.

"Lopez, I need you to drive."

That throws you, because this jeep—her jeep—is her special thing. SFC Fabray makes fun of her constantly for it and even complains that she's never been allowed to drive it. You can't believe she's about to let you do it.

"What?" you try to make sure you heard her right.

The staff sergeant is taking off her seatbelt, "Yeah, come on. Motta get out too. We're going for a run."

She gives a heartbroken, "Yes, Sergeant," and gets out of the jeep with all the motivation of a dried worm.

While you're kind of shielded from the NCO's view Motta grumbles, "This isn't fair. She's such a bitch."

That really just pisses you off.

"No, you want to know what isn't fair?" you catch her arm and make her look at you, "when bad soldiers have great leadership and are too self-absorbed to realize how good they have it. _Her_ first instinct was to protect you," you make sure she understands what's going on here, "_my_ NCOs would have left me out to hang and then laugh when I got caught."

She doesn't look that convinced, "It's not saving me from anything if I'm still getting punished."

"Please," you have no sympathy, "this jog back to the barracks is nothing compared to what First Sergeant could have cooked up, and Pierce wants to save you from that. You still fucked up, Motta. No matter how you look at it you're in the wrong and Sergeant Pierce is doing more than any other NCO would be willing to do to get you back in the right."

She doesn't answer, just pulls back her arm. You let go with one last warning, "Fucking think about it."

SSG Pierce stays at the driver's door until you get around to it. She's taking off her uniform jacket and tossing it in the back. She's planning on running with her soldier, which is so awesome to you. Few NCOs inflict punishment that they're willing to take too.

"Here, jump in," she nods to the seat and you step up onto the foot rail. When you finally get into the seat you feel nervous, you don't want to mess this up, even if you're just going to be following along at a crawl, it's _her jeep_.

"You might have to adjust the seat, short stuff."

You catch her smile as she steps up onto the foot rail after you, holding onto the crossbar to steady herself, "It's down here."

Her hands move, one to the back of your chair and the other to the latch under your seat, between your ankles. You keep your hands resolutely on your track pants, ignoring how closer her head is to your chest, how her forearm is pressing into your shin to reach. She maneuvers your chair forward a few inches and leans back, "There we go."

"I could have done it," you mumble, not that you're complaining.

"I know," she reaches across you, pressing a knob on the dash and activating the lights mounted above the windshield, "but really, this is my baby," then she's hitting her hazard lights to get the hazard flashers going, "and I don't like it when other girls play with her buttons."

It's out of your mouth before you can stop it, "Are you the jealous type?"

Her eyes slide from the dash to yours, and the smile is slow to come to her face, but it comes with a sly light to it, "I can be, if they're worth it."

Her lack of a definitive pronoun is not lost on you. Your stomach flips, head spinning. You're worth it, you know you are.

"So," it's one in the morning and you're pushing your luck. You wave a finger around the cab, "I'm not getting under the hood tonight but... what am I actually allowed to touch?"

She's trying to keep herself from letting her smile turning into a grin, you can tell by the way she sucks on her bottom lip and looks away for a moment, her eyes find something worth a distraction

Encouraged by her reaction, you continue, "The steering wheel, I hope?"

She rolls her eyes, still smiling, "And the iPod, listen to whatever you like, I don't think there's anything on there older than Madonna."

"It'll be fine," you don't know why she always makes a comment about your taste in music, but it's nice. You like to think that she takes an interest in the things you enjoy. That means something to you.

"Actually, can you," her lips tuck to one side and she points, "I have a spare reflective belt in my glove box, could you pass it to me?"

"Are you sure?" you're already reaching for the glove box, "I wouldn't want to violate any rules, it's my first time with your baby and I want to treat her right—"

She flicks her nail against the bone of your elbow.

"That's abuse," you send over your shoulder, dabbling in the easy going nature she's having with you. You find the PT belt next to a book that looks like her registration and a flashlight.

"No," she glances back to her solider, "what I _want_ to do to her would be considered abuse, she's getting off easy."

"It's over three miles to the barracks," you remind her. "She has a stomach full of cheap beer and about twenty pounds of Burger King."

"If she throws up we'll stop," she isn't too concerned. "Look, I know you know how to drive but... stay on the shoulder, maybe like ten yards behind us, so we're in the headlights to keep us from getting hit by a car, or a deer, or tripping on something—"

"Can I put on my seat belt? Or are you going to do that for me too?"

Her eyes narrow a bit, because she knows you're making fun of her, finally she says, "Specialist Lopez, asking for help?"

You scoff like she insulted you and she laughs at your reaction, hopping down and stretches her arms over her head, her hands linked tight, tan tee shirt pulled snug over her stomach. You try not to stare. "Please don't hurt my jeep, Lopez."

"I'll be gentle, you can trust me."

She snorts, walking away and tossing over her shoulder, "I bet you say that to all the girls."

By the time they start running, you still haven't exactly recovered.

* * *

It's been about a mile Motta isn't doing so hot. She's stopped a few times and keeled over like she was going to hurl, but SSG Pierce's insistent little push got her going again. It sucks for the senior medic because she's running in boots and her uniform trousers, instead of the shorts and flats that Motta's sporting. When she turns to say something to her soldier, you can see the sweat on her skin shine in your headlights.

You glance at her iPod in the dock because this techno remix is the most annoying thing you've ever heard. Taking it out, you assure yourself that you have a pretty good stretch of straight road and browse through her playlists. You figure most of them are for running.

_Boogie_

_Running_

_Run Faster_

_Reemix_

Except one, entitled, _Hot Mess_.

You click on it, wondering if it's some kind of band and why it sounds so familiar. When you see the song list, maybe only ten tracks, you blink a few times to see if you're reading it right; that the night isn't playing tricks on you and she really downloaded the songs she's caught you singing.

You're not going crazy, Peggy Lee and Etta James are on the screen and each have a handful of songs.

Blindly, you thumb out of the playlist and into something that wasn't introduced to the medic by your singing voice. You don't even know what to think. You can't take it too personally, she just remembered the names of the artists and songs she caught you singing for about half a minute.

She only went out of her way to put those songs on her iPod, and then put them all together on the same playlist.

That's no big deal.

Was she just that interested in the music?

Was it something she didn't want you to see, since she told you she didn't have anything in your specific genre?

Would it remind her of you?

You can't even imagine. So you drown out your thoughts on a dubstep remix of a Flo Rida song and watch the girls in front of you continue to run.

* * *

You're about a quarter mile out from the barracks when Motta finally loses her shit. It's nasty and you're not nearly as sympathetic as SSG Pierce, who's holding back her hair and rubbing her back. In the jeep's headlights, you can see her talking and you wonder if she's giving another disappointment speech. After a moment to catch her breath Motta starts running again and you're pretty sure SSG Pierce is talking more positives than negatives right now.

She makes soldiers want to work for her.

They finish strong, Motta has this look on her face like she might actually be proud of herself for being able to survive that and SSG Pierce is laughing along with her.

You park as they hover on the sidewalk. They get back to that serious place and you know SSG Pierce is telling Motta that this can't happen again. Motta walks back towards the barracks and the staff sergeant heads towards you. Assuming she would want to drive her baby back to your car, you slip out of the seat and step down onto the foot rail.

"Good run?" you notice the way her breath is visible in the cool night air, deep huffs from the run. Her tee shirt is clinging to her torso, there's a small damp spot at her neck, and she's smiling so brightly.

"Good training," she corrects you, heading towards the passenger's side of the jeep. "Do you mind driving back? I'm kinda wiped out."

You're nervous and excited, and are praying it doesn't show, "Three miles really wiped you out?"

She rolls her eyes as she buckles in, "I did eight this morning, so don't even start with me."

You laugh and she goes about shutting off the flood lights, you get the hazards and hit the road towards Burger King.

"It's really lame that Sylvester picks the weekend before we go on leave to mess with everyone."

"She's did it on purpose," SSG Pierce explains. "She has to start setting the discipline level for the deployment. If our soldiers are used to acting crazy and getting away with it, what do you think is going to happen when they're carrying weapons and live ammo? If she doesn't start now, it'll be too late by the time we get boots on ground."

You think that makes sense.

"I should have brought Flanagan out here," she's still smiling, "this would have been a great kumbaya thing for the medics."

"Sounds like a blast," you sigh. Honestly, you think you wouldn't mind getting punished if there was a feel good moment at the end. If it was just you and Sam, and you could just embrace the suck together, it wouldn't be that bad. Maybe even something to remember.

She takes you the wrong way.

"I didn't mean to ruin your night," she apologizes, "or drag you into all of this, I'm sure you have a lot better things to do than drive around at two in the morning."

"No, actually, I don't," you shrug easily, your hands shifting awkwardly on the steering wheel, "I've been in my room all day."

"Because Evans was hanging out with Flanagan?" she's being careful, trying to keep it casual. "I ran into them at the barracks during the walk through."

"I actually canceled on him," you give her an excuse because you're not sure you can talk about it, "I needed some time to myself and I think he needed a guy's night, so..."

"You two are going on leave together, right?"

You glance at her, "Sergeant Fabray tell you that?"

She nods.

"She told me I have until Monday to make sure that's where I wanted to go," you remember how she acted when she realized you weren't going home. "Why is it a big deal?"

"She was just worried," her tone kind of implies that she is concerned too. "Young soldiers should go home, it helps before the deployment."

"Are you going home?"

"_Young_ soldiers, Lopez," she smiles.

"You're not much older than me," you remind her… for some reason.

"In Army years, I am," she brushes away your comment and continues with, "and no, I'm not going home. My family has seen so many people deploy so often that it's kind of old news now."

You want to ask about her family and if it was her parents that had deployed.

"But that doesn't mean I won't see them," she scratches her arm almost self-consciously, "my parents are coming for family day and my little sister will be in town before that. It's important, you know, to have time with your roots."

"My roots told me not to come home," you say quietly. "They don't have time for me."

She's quiet for a moment, and then offers, "That's kind of harsh, I'm sorry."

You're glad that she's taking you at your word and not trying to convince you that it's not really that bad. It makes you feel better in a weird way, like your feelings, your hurt, is justified. That's more comforting than if she tried to tell you that your mom really wanted to make it and will always love you or something like that.

"It's always been like that," you grumble in the most unaffected way possible. "I shouldn't have been surprised."

SSG Pierce is very smart, she has you figured out in a single look, "You got your hopes up."

The tender concern in her words rips the scab off your wounded little heart. You press your lips together tightly, rolling your eyes, but dismissive noise you make probably doesn't fool her. You pull up to a red light frowning. You need to just get to your car so you can run away and go hide out in your room like the big baby she must think you are. You flip your blinker, needing to turn left onto 41A.

"Hey."

Again, her voice is small and gentle, like she's trying to coax a kitten out of a box. You don't want her to think of you as a kitten. You want to be a tiger or something vaguely more impressive. Anything but a tiny kitten.

You glance over to her, and you realize, she can see everything. She can see the way your hands tense on the steering wheel, the quiver in your throat. It's all highlighted in the red glow of the traffic light. She can probably even see the trace of mist in your eyes.

"You don't have to turn left… and if you turn right, we don't have to talk about it, we can just drive," she leans back, slouching in her seat comfortably, looking as little like an NCO as she can possibly make herself. "Whatever you want."

She's giving you the option. Over everything. You can turn right and keep driving, together. You can use the time to talk about your problems or you can fill the time with random conversation. You're sure she'll follow your lead. It's completely up to you.

"Where would we go?" you run you hand through your hair, brushing it to one side so she can see your face for better or for worse.

"We're going to your car," she looks right, and you hope it's because that's the decision she wants you to make. Her hands snakes out waving around like a fish traveling through an imaginary lake, "We're just gonna take the long way."

"Scenic route?" you feel the tension between your shoulder blades ease, an unwitting smile appearing on your lips.

"Exactly," she snaps her fingers and it's been decided.

You turn right.

This direction takes you back towards Clarksville. The streetlights are that eerie orange that reminds you of staying out too late and getting into too much trouble. It's probably a very accurate feeling seeing as you're driving this jeep, at this hour, with this staff sergeant. There's a weight in the air between you, because you both know this isn't the most appropriate thing in the world, but neither is going to mention that.

Instead you say, "It's lucky for Motta that you live with Fabray."

"Lucky for me you mean," she's taking her hair down from her bun and shaking it out with her fingers. Your eyes deviate from the road to watch, only for a second. Her hair is so pretty, catching the streetlights and falling along her shoulders in effortlessly perfect waves. "Sylvester would have hemmed me up so bad."

"You've worked with her before coming to this unit," you remember a few things that have been said here and there, "so has Sergeant Fabray."

"Yes," she laughs, a light reminiscing tone, "believe it or not, she was our Platoon Sergeant."

"No way," you look at her like she's crazy but you can totally see it.

"Yeah," she leans down and starts unlacing her boots, "back at Jackson. She led that SRT Team I was talking about, Quinn had just earned her stripes, I was a specialist like you, and by the time Sylvester was done with us, I had pinned sergeant and Quinn was on the list for staff sergeant."

"That's too cool," you try to picture them as soldiers rising up in the ranks.

"It was," she agrees, "and trust me, we gave Sylvester hell."

"Really?" you would love to hear about that.

"Where do you think I got the drunk run idea from?" she smirks at you, "Quinn and I were _known_ for our drunk runs. It was almost like, a monthly event."

You shake your head smiling at the image in your head.

"She would ride behind us in this golf cart with a megaphone. We had to run until we threw up everywhere," her nose scrunches up, "then Quinn would make some smartass comment and we would run some more."

"Sergeant Fabray, talking back?" you muse sarcastically, "Never."

"She was kind of crazy when she was a solider," she tells you with a soft smile. "All attitude, she used to walk around with this big chip on her shoulder."

You know the feeling, you wonder if you have similar reasons.

"She told us," you know this is none of your business, "that one time when we were setting up the shoot house, that she left home when she was a teenager."

The medic nods.

You're thinking about that kid you met in the back of the company. How old you figure she is and how old you figure SFC Fabray is and if you're assuming correctly, you've figured out the reason she might have left home as a teenager.

"Was that something she wanted…" you know you're treading the line, asking her to give up personal information about her best friend. You hope she trusts you enough. "Or was it more of a… suggestion?"

She's quiet for a second, trying to figure out how to answer you.

"That's kinda another reasons she wants you to be absolutely sure that you don't want to go home," SSG Pierce surprises you with her answer, "because she doesn't have a family to go home to and she knows how much it sucks."

You make a left down Tiny Town road. The streets are completely empty and you'd like to pretend that the only two people on the planet are sitting in this jeep. Things would be so much simpler.

"It does suck," you mumble. "Everyone is talking about how excited they are to go home… hang out with their family… or their friends… fucking, people are excited to see their dogs, and if I went home the only thing waiting for me would be microwave dinners and Netflix. It's like…"

You don't even know what it's like.

She might know, because you almost start to cry when she says, "We're about to leave on this big scary adventure, and you feel like no one's going to miss you."

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth and drive. She doesn't push any more than that. You drive in silence, with nothing but the music from her iPod between you. When you hit the end of the road, instead of taking the highway to the mall, you turn right and drive through a small bit of suburbia. You don't understand how she knows what's going on in your head.

"Am I that obvious?" there's a hint of bitterness to your tone.

"Not at all," she gives you an honest look. "No, I only meant… that in my family, deployment is almost… expected, you know? So, sometimes I feel like we're only going through the motions. Check the block, kinda thing."

Her family has been desensitized to the deployment process, you get it now.

"Just wait," she huffs, rolling her eyes, "we're gonna have that going away ceremony and family day, and if you look around there'll be waterworks and families hugging like it's the last time they're never going to see each other… and my mom is going to pat me on the back and tell me the same things she always does, _make me proud, Britt. I'll see you when you get back."_

You're not sure which is worse, not having anyone at all, or having someone with a seemingly professional detachment.

Instead of saying something insensitive like that you ask, "What did she do in the Air Force?"

"She was a pilot," she crosses her arms. "She did really well for herself. Climbed the promotion ladder like it was a jungle gym."

"What kind of pilot?" your first thought is going to _Top Gun_.

"The kind of pilot who's plane carries more weight in ammunition than fuel," she shifts a little in her seat and you get the idea that she doesn't want to talk about it so you don't ask any more questions.

They fall into another silence, until the unfamiliar song playing catches your attention. Something about the lyrics, the fact that SSG Pierce has this song on her iPod, makes you laugh. You find it hilarious for some reason and it's enough to break the tension. The medic looks at you curiously, confused by you change in attitude.

With a calming breath, you quirk an eyebrow, "I thought you said rap wasn't all about tapping that ass?"

The confused expression on her face only lasts as long as it takes to recognize what song is playing and the lopsided, bashful smile that replaces it is so adorable.

"Oh, whatever it has a good beat," she pulls her iPod out of the dock and asks, "do you know this song?"

"No," you shake your head, "what's the name?"

"_Frisky_, by Tinie Tempah," she starts scrolling through her playlists and as an afterthought, she adds, "it's a lot of fun to dance to."

The idea of her dancing… with the lights flashing and the music loud, in some club that's slightly too crowded but that works to your benefit because it gives you an excuse to be that much closer to the body that looks like it can move beautifully to any beat—and you'd just die to have the chance to dance with her.

"I got a rap song for you," she says, her eyes sliding to you with a sly smile, hitting the play button.

You don't recognize the cowbell and or bass track intro, but when the lyrics pick up, you recognize it and she knows every word.

"_I said a hip, hop, the hippie, the hippie to the hip hip hoppa, ya don't stop the rockin' to the bang bang boogie said up jumps the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat."_

On the inside, you are squealing. Staff Sergeant Pierce is going along with the lyrics to _Rapper's Delight_ with the goofiest smile on her face and all the cheesy hand gestures that match.

"_Now what you hear is not a test, I'm rappin' to the beat, and me, the grove, and my friends are gonna try to move ya feet."_

Your shoulders are quaking with an effort to keep in your laughter. She notices, and the smile on her face changes, it's smoother, in character, and so fucking charming. You try to keep your eyes on her as much as you can between driving, and needing to look away so you're not watching her lips.

"_Ya see, I am Wonder Mike and I'd like to say hello,"_ she lifts her chin to you in this suave little way and your heart trembles. She's doing that thing again, trying to make you laugh. It's working. _"To the black, to the white, the red and the brown, the purple and yellow, but first I gotta—bang-bang, the boogie to the boogie, said up jumps the boogie to the bang-bang boogie. Let's rock, ya don't stop, rock the rhythm that'll make your body rock."_

You would love to have her rhythm rock your body.

She goes a few more verses before changing the song to some dance remix and you literally have no words. All you can do is suck on your bottom lip and shake your head. You drive around for another half an hour, smiling, feeling her smiling next to you and talking about random crap about music and people in the company.

Because amazing things can never last, sooner than you would have liked, you find yourself parked in the Burger King parking lot. There's something sad about it, and you're kind of sullen when you unbuckle your seatbelt and move to get out of the cab. You step out onto the foot rail and just before you hop down, something tugs on your sleeve.

You weren't paying attention to anything but how it's four in the morning and it startles you so badly that your balance falters. You try to catch yourself on the doorframe but miss and start falling backwards. Strong hands grab you, pulling you back towards the jeep by your arm and the front of your shirt.

The breath catches in your throat; she's so close, hovering with one knee in the driver's seat, and anchoring your weight with her calf hooked around center console. She's breathing kind of quick from the scare and it washes over your chin, you're that close. You see her eyes like you've never been able to see them before; wide yet focused, vibrant with the prettiest shade of blue and—they glance down.

They're looking at your lips.

You know it.

You look at hers because she looks at yours and you see those perfectly pink lips move as she speaks a simple, "Hey."

"Hi," you whisper stupidly, lost in her proximity, the hand burning into your bicep, the way she could totally look down your shirt right now the collar is so stretched and you wouldn't mind if she did.

"I didn't mean to scare you," she meets your eyes again. You watch the blush spread over her face.

"I'm alright," you are certainly not complaining. You actually love this. Her holding you close like this, tightly, like she's scare to let go.

"You got it?" she's asking you to take your own weight, because she really needs to get her hands off of you. You can see it.

You take a firmer hold of the door frame and nod, "Yeah, I'm good."

Her hands loosen their grip slowly, as if she wants to test your safely before letting go for good. As you straighten yourself, she's situating herself in the driver's seat, her boots still unlaced and hair falling over her shoulders. She's perfect.

"Thank you," she tells you, turning down the volume of the music, "for helping me out tonight. Motta and I both owe you one."

"I don't think Motta feels the same way," a breath of a laugh falls from your lips as you look around the empty parking lot.

"She should," SSG Pierce is certain. She studies you for a moment before finishing with, "You're going to be a great NCO someday, Lopez."

You don't respond, because compliments like that make your insides squirm. When people tell you stuff like that you can't help but feel like you're going to let them down. It's like they're jinxing you.

"All you have to do is kick that attitude," she teases, making you blush.

"I know," you sigh around a small smile.

"I um," she starts quietly, touching her steering wheel nervously, "I don't think it's a big deal that we don't have people who are going to be all frowny face when we leave."

You look at her closely, eyebrows furrowing, but even the reminder of your mother can't keep the smile off your face. She just spent this entire ride trying to make you feel better and there's _nothing_ that will ruin it for you.

"Because, if you think about it," she hesitates shyly, looking from the dashboard, to her knees, and then finally back to you, "all the important people are going with us, so we won't be missing much anyway."

Absolutely nothing.


	17. DA Form 31

DA Form 31: Request and Authority for Leave.

* * *

You inspect your work, it's been such a long time since you've painted your nails like this. Color is unauthorized in uniform, and it's such a hassle to make sure that all the paint is removed by the next morning that somewhere down the line you simply stopped trying. Unless it's a long weekend and you're going out, your nails have been depressingly plain for the last two years. Today, however, is time for a bold stark red.

Evans' little sister, Stacie, is much better at this than your unpracticed hand. She's decorating her nails with a design in another color. You used to be able to do stuff like that too. It's almost kind of funny, because you're repertoire of skills has shifted from accessories to assault rifles, and you know what? That's okay. You can clean up just fine when you need too.

The Evans family is the most easygoing group of people you've ever met. You're not sure if it's southern hospitality or because they're simply great people. You think it's the latter. When you finally got to the ranch, gated with a nearly mile long driveway, your foot wasn't even on the gravel before you were swept up in a haze of hay fever and hugs.

They were all so happy you had come it didn't feel like you were a pity tag along at all. They make you feel like you belong here. Mrs. Evans, her hug was the longest, the warmest, and the most damaging. You've noticed that she smells like flour—like she had just stepped away from the kitchen—and something cinnamon. Somehow she always smells like that, and somehow she's managed to pull you into more hugs than anyone in your entire life. Masochistically, you love it. It's ripping the scab off the wound your own mother left, but her warm smile is the band-aid to sooth the sting.

The whole family is doing it, one after the other, all unconsciously bandaging the cracks your real family has left. Right now, you're sitting on the floor of the living room, leaning against the couch with your second favorite Evans child. There's a movie playing on the television but you're not really paying attention to it, you're more occupied with your nails and glancing at the cellphone that's been buzzing every two seconds.

"Who's that?"

Rolling her eyes doesn't distract from the flush blooming on her face, "Some guy."

"Like, boyfriend kind of guy?" you ask casually.

She glances around, making sure that there's no one in the kitchen and you give her a curious look. With an embarrassed sigh she admits, "My brothers don't like the idea of me dating."

You snort, thinking about how protective Evans can be of you, it must be twice as bad for her, "Yeah, I can see that."

"It doesn't stop me," she catches your eye with a defiant smirk. "My mom knows, but she said to give the boys a few more years."

That makes you laugh, "What grade are you in?"

"I'm a sophomore," she types a quick message as a reply. "Stevie graduated last year, so I finally don't have a big brother scaring all the guys off."

You're smiling even as you blow on your nails, "Did that suck? Having your brother in school with you?"

"It was cool at first," she shrugs, searching around the mess of bottles on the floor for the right color. "He would drive me to school so I didn't ever have to ride the bus and my teachers liked me because I was this big football player's little sister."

You wonder what it would have been like if you had a brother or a sister; home probably wouldn't have felt so lonely.

"But after a while you don't want to be Stevie's little sister, you just want to be Stacie."

You can understand that; everyone wants their own room in the world, no one likes being in a shadow, even if it's probably the most loving shadow you could imagine.

"If Evans had been my brother in high school I would have gotten into a lot less trouble," you say quietly.

Her nose wrinkles in amusement, "It's so weird hearing you call him by his last name."

"It's a habit," you roll your eyes at yourself, smiling along.

"You don't have any brothers or sisters?"

"Nah, I'm an only child," you shake your head and glance over to the TV. "Spoiled rotten, got everything I wanted, you know, the works."

Even her laugh has a southern accent; it's the cutest thing, "Now I don't believe that for a second."

"Believe what you want. What really matters is your boy there," you nod to her phone, "tell me about him."

Her blush is back, and she tries to hide it by focusing on her nails. She tells you about how he plays soccer, and is taking honors classes with her, and how he's so cute. She tells you about the small things, the one other people notice, like how he can't stand a certain class, or about the music he listens too.

"How long have you been together?"

"About to be five months."

"That's a long time in high school land," you're only half teasing.

"Shut up," she nudges your shoulder and takes your hand to look at your nails, "red is totally your color."

"I usually do black or red," you check out your work and figure out how long you can leave it on. "I look horrible in camo, it really clashes with my skin tone."

You both laugh at that and when you calm down she asks, "What about you? Sam never mentioned if you had a boyfriend or not."

The comment throws you, because you assumed he would have told them about that particular part of your life.

She doesn't know what to make of your surprise, "Why are you looking at me like that—oh my goodness, are you dating my brother?"

"What? No—hell no," you wave off the crazy notion, laughing at how ridiculous it is. "We're not together, he's a cool guy, but no, not my type."

"Darn," she frowns playfully. "That's a shame because you're so much cooler than some of the crazies he's brung around here."

You scratch your nose, "Yeah?"

"Oh definitely," she rolls her eyes at her brother's antics, "Mom can't stand the lot of them, and it's hard, because Sam's such a nice guy that girl's just chew him up and spit him out."

"Stacie, are you spreading lies about me?"

You both look up to where Evans is walking into the living room with a bowl of popcorn and three sodas tucked under his arm.

"It's not a lie if it's true," she smirks, taking two sodas and passing one to you.

He settles on the couch to finish the rest of the movie with you, sharing his popcorn and not minding the girl talk or nail polish fumes. It's not long before Stacie's phone rings and she scurries out of the room before answering.

"Is that a guy?" he asks, his eyes still on the door his sister left through.

"Let the girl have some fun," you nudge his shin with your elbow. "Your brotherly love is cute and all but she can handle herself."

"Yeah I know," he admits grudgingly, scooting onto the floor next to you. "Your nails look nice."

"I can paint yours too."

He laughs, "I think I'll pass."

"Your loss, Sammy boy," you cap your bottle of nail polish and make sure all the others are capped too. You've decided that Stacie is probably not coming back to finish the movie so you start packing the bottles up in the case they came out of.

"Can I ask you something?"

You glance at your friend, because he knows you hate questions like that. They're stupid red flags that just scream for awkward conversations. But he's your best friend, so you look back to the cosmetics case and say, "Sure."

"What Stacie said is kinda truer than I wish it was. I don't have very much luck with the ladies," he starts out and you have no idea where he's going with this.

"Are you asking for dating advice, because we're two weeks from being shipped off to Iraq and I don't think it's really an issue right now," you say slowly.

"No, but that's my point," he lights up like you've caught onto what he's trying to say even though you're so lost. "We're not going to be dating for at least another year, and maybe even after that, I don't know, and with the deployment coming up I was thinking that we could… you know."

You're pretty sure he's lost his mind, "Think really hard about what you're implying here, Evans."

He huffs, "I'm not saying we should date, that's never going to happen, but…" he bites his lip and lowers his voice, "if we get married…"

You stare at him for a full minute before asking, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No, hear me out," he's serious, you can see it in his eyes, "we could get a contract marriage."

Everything clicks then, but you're still a little blindsided. Contract marriages, they happen in the military between two people who want the benefits of married soldiers, but don't have anyone to love.

"You're my best friend and the only person I know, _I know_, will have my back on this deployment no matter what the hell happens. I trust you, Lopez."

Your mouth, which had been hanging open in disbelief closes tightly, you feel your teeth click together and your stomach twist.

"We could make twice as much money on this deployment if we were married," he explains and you know it's true, "and it would guarantee that we could take our mid-tour leave together."

He's right, again. During deployment soldiers are allowed two weeks of leave in the middle of the deployment and if you had a piece of paper that said you were married, you would be allowed to take it together. You hadn't even planned on taking it, because you wouldn't have anywhere to go… but if you could take it together…

"And when we get back, if we wanted to," he offers, "being married would let us get housing allowance so we could get an apartment off post."

That sounds nice, not living in the barracks anymore.

"And I don't know," he rubs the back of his neck, "if we had something like that between us, if one of us came down on orders to transfer duty stations next year, we could go together."

He doesn't want to marry you because he's in love with you, he wants a piece of paper that protects your friendship as much as possible. He doesn't want the Army to split you up.

"It would be a contract thing of course," he levels with you, "I would never expect anything more to happen between us. I love you, Lopez, but not like that."

You let out a shaky laugh, caught up in how much thought he's put into keeping you together.

He smiles lightly, "It's just a piece of paper. When we find someone worth it, we can go to a courthouse and make it go away. Simple as that."

Your heart clenches because you've found someone worth it, you just can't have them. And what would SSG Pierce think about this? She would know, of course, that it was a bunch of bullshit. She would know it was to trick the Army out of every last dime it can give you.

With this contract thing you would make more money, you would be allowed to take leave together, you would be able to live off post when you get back from Iraq…

That idea makes you pause.

"If we're married then we can't be in the same platoon."

He wouldn't be your teammate anymore. You wouldn't be able to depend on him because he would be working with other people. That… that scares you more than anything. You need him. More than you need the money or the comfort of couple's benefits.

His face falls, he hadn't thought of that, you can tell.

"Shit, you're right…"

"I trust you too, Evans and like, you know most of the people in our company are idiots. You're actually the only other person in our platoon that has a fucking brain, and you know how to defuse my bitch," you struggle with the words because it's hard for you to say this kind of thing, "and that means a lot. Especially since this is our first time deploying; if I didn't have you in my corner I'm not sure I'll be able to—"

Handle it. Without him by your side, you're not sure if you could handle it.

"I'll probably go bat shit on someone and get written up again," you scoff, unable to say what you really mean.

"I think I'd rather be your teammate than your fake husband anyway," he chuckles, nodding along with you, he understands. You can tell he's already figured out your decision and he's not holding it against you.

"I'm totally flattered though," you rub the corner of your eye, "if I was going to fake marry anyone, it would be you."

"Totally," he grabs the remote and flips the channel like this conversation never happened.

* * *

Mrs. Evans is making an apple pie.

You've deduced this by the ingredients lying in wait on the kitchen counters and island. She's been peeling apples at the sink and listening to her children in the living room for the past half an hour. You've been sitting on the far end of the couch, pretending to be interested in the new Madden game while discreetly looking into the kitchen.

"Santana, dear."

You look up from where you had been watching her hands and the practiced way she manipulates the apple peeler, "Yes, ma'am?"

She tilts her head, beckoning you towards her. With a glance to make sure the boys are preoccupied, you slip off the couch and walk over. You don't move too closely, not wanting to contaminate her cooking area. The way you're standing, at the edge of the shining floor tiles with the tips of your fingers gripping each other in front of your stomach, makes you feel exactly like you did when you were a child.

Her face doesn't turn from her work, but her eyes shift to you, "What did I tell you about calling me ma'am?"

You flush, "I'm sorry, Mary, habit."

"Well you'd best kick it," she lifts her knife point to you with a lighthearted threat. When the smile spreads over your face, she has one to match, and waves you further into the kitchen, "Why are you standing way over there?"

"Another habit," you mumble, taking a few steps closer and studying her ingredients now that you've been given permission to enter. "My mom always liked her space when she cooked."

That inspires a curious look, "Do you know how to cook?"

"A few things," you know what she's really asking, if your mother ever took the time to teach you, "I look up a lot of recipes and meddle around every once in a while. I can make some awesome guacamole."

Her eyes soften, understanding that you look up those recipes on your own. Your mom was always more prone to Hamburger Helper and macaroni and cheese. Anything she could cook in less than half an hour.

"Stacie is at that age… making her father drive her an hour down the road to get to a bigger mall. She doesn't have much time for apple pies anymore. A family this size—with those boys," she eyes the guys on the couch and sends you a teasing smile, "I can't make enough food to keep their bellies full."

You bite your lip to keep from laughing, "I bet."

"I'm going to be making three," she nods to the crust pans, "and I could sure use another set of hands."

Your entire body brightens, "Yeah, sure, what can I do?"

Any other time, it would be embarrassing how excited you are, but not right now; when she's smiling at you like that and making you feel warm, and welcome, and… all you want to do is help.

Mrs. Evans is quick to put you to work, talking you through the steps for your pie as she juggles the other two. There's something entirely too wholesome about making apple pies. You figure that this is what a home is supposed to feel like; with the chatter of brothers, the sun spilling in from the window above the sink, someone in the kitchen baking for their family.

Evans turns in your direction more than a few times, and you ignore his amused eyes so you can focus on the way Mrs. Evans' hands are sprinkling flour onto the large wooden island.

"How do you make an apple pie taste even better?"

You think it has something to do with dough she's rolling flat and the topless pies on the counter, "Um, add sugar?"

She laughs at you like you're the cutest thing. You take up your own lump of dough to follow along and ignore your blush.

"Making them look pretty, Santana. There's so much to be said about presentation."

She's using a pizza wheel to cut the dough into strips and suddenly you get it, "Oh my god, are we gonna do the cool weave pie crust thing?"

Mrs. Evans grins, "Yes dear, it's called a lattice top and it's how I've won the county fair's pie contest four years running. The girls at the farmer's market will be so jealous that I've given my secret away and I'm going to love telling them all about it."

This is an award winning pie recipe and she's teaching it to you. You scratch your nose with the back of your wrist and take a deep breath through your nose. Your eyes are stinging. You'll never be able to forget the flour and apple smell in the room, the sound of the boys fooling around over video games, or the color of the fresh paint of your nails.

You'll never forget these people and how they've made you feel.

Like you are part of the family.

* * *

This place is so depressing now that you think about it.

Fort Campbell is seriously _bleak_. What's even worse is how much you're going to miss it. Your eyes are constantly looking around in a manic searching for something to remember, something special you might be able to take with you to the desert.

You're in a world full of lasts.

Is this the last time you'll drive down this road? The last time you'll have a milkshake at Burger King? The last time you'll be walking into a movie theater?

What a convenience it is to have such entertainment at your fingertips, rows and rows of junk food lined up for you behind a counter. You wonder what things will be like when you're in Iraq; certainly it won't be this easy. You've heard stories about desert outposts that get one shipment of supplies every month. On the other hand there are some bases with shopping centers just as big as the one on Fort Campbell. With your luck though…

No matter, you're pretty sure you'll be able to tough it out. You don't like candy that much anyway.

In fact, all you get from the food stand is something to drink. You're not usually one to visit the local theater by _yourself_, it's completely pathetic now that you think about it, but three days alone in your room was enough to realize why SFC Fabray wanted to make sure you had somewhere to go for leave. Spending all this time in solitude isn't letting you do anything but worry about what's about to happen, and really, you'd like to stop thinking about it. What better way to distract yourself than paying seven dollars to watch some crappy animated film? Drowning your anxiety in cute musical numbers seems like a great idea.

You take a seat in the theater so early that the lights haven't even dimmed yet. You didn't mean to get here so early, but you seriously needed to get the hell out of your room. You're starting to wonder if the theater is empty because of the time or if it's because this movie is supposed to suck. It really doesn't matter, the less people that see you in a theater by yourself, the better.

To pass the time, you devote your full attention to Angry Birds. Even through the pig killing, you find yourself hoping no one else will come into the theater so you can laugh at the cheesy moments without further embarrassment. You're about to beat Evans' high score when your concentration is thrown. Something touched your shoulder; you flinch, swatting the area on your hooded vest because you'll be damned if you get attacked by a spider in this cheap ass theater.

Your search comes up without a culprit and you go back to your game. It's a second later that you feel it again, and this time a yellow Skittle tumbles over your shoulder to land into your lap. You turn quickly, peering into the rows above you for some stupid teenagers to throw your soda at, but there's no one there.

"Don't even play like that, asshole," you bluff, listening closely for any noise. You didn't hear anyone come in so that freaks you out, and you're decidedly not in the mood to get messed with. Coming to a movie alone is lame enough, getting punked by a bunch of kids puts it over the edge. "I know you're up there and I'm fixing to come up there and—"

The near hysterical giggling from two rows back stops you short. Your grip on the seatback tightens; now they're laughing at you and your pride is three seconds away from jumping over the seat to show them just exactly what you had in store for them. As if they knew you've almost reached your breaking point, the giggles stifle and a single hand appears from behind the seat.

"Don't shoot," says a feminine voice, still bubbling with laughter and very, _very_, familiar. Your knuckles turn white from how tightly you're clutching the seat. Staff Sergeant Pierce peeks up from behind the seat in front of her, keeping her face hidden, and only showing her eyes. You don't have to see more than that to know she's still smiling, "I'm friendly."

You stare for probably longer than necessary, until you decide to ask the obvious question, "Were you throwing candy at me?"

"Maybe," she moves out of her hiding place to sit on the edge of her seat, crossing her arms over the seat in front of her and resting her chin on them, "are you still _fixin' ta_ come up here and kick my ass, Lopez?"

Her words are laced with an exaggerated southern accent and you blush, rolling your eyes, "I did not say it like that."

"You very well did, little lady," she keeps the accent and the smile.

The nickname brings a smile to your face, and you throw your head back exasperated, "Shit, don't call me that, all the Evans boys—"

You cut yourself off, suddenly unsure. This is… weird, acting like you're familiar with her in some way. You're not friends; you know that. It's unreal how easily you fell into that illusion with her—again. Her smile is so disarming; it makes you lose yourself and all sense of reality.

But when you look around, you don't mind this reality at all. You're sitting in a theater with one other person—the only person you'd ever want to run into by happenstance. What is going on? Why is she here in the theater? In _this _theater? Alone? You don't know what to do or how to respond to her when she's being so… friendly.

Her head tilts to the slide, curious about either your hesitation or her next question, "And why aren't you still with the Evans boys? I thought you were supposed to spend the full two weeks there."

Leaving the Evans home was difficult, but for the best. You know that the longer you stayed the more emotional it would have become. You've always prided yourself on being able to realize when things are getting too deep, and you're very good at cutting them off before that happens—for most things anyway.

No matter what, you won't regret going on that trip. The Evans family was amazing to you; they made you feel loved, like you had a family, they let you imagine that you were really part of that… and that was enough.

That one week was enough. No need to get too attached.

You don't need one more thing to miss.

"I was, but I couldn't stay the whole time," you watch her eyes soften, she understands. It's great pretending you're part of the family, but you'll always remember the people you're actually related to, and how they won't even _pretend_ for your sake.

"So… now you're spending the rest of your leave going to the movies by yourself? That sounds like a blast," her eyebrows quirk, one before the other. She's trying to be lighthearted about it. Her tone is jokingly playful and… just so giddy.

You get what's going on behind that smile of hers.

She's happy to see you.

Happy enough to mess around with you by throwing Skittles, instead of a causal greeting as you went on with your day. She was concerned enough to want to know why you're not with Evans anymore. She is comfortable enough with you to let her guard down and goof off with you.

Because she's _glad_ that she ran into you.

"I had some time on my hands," the smile on your face doesn't go along with the dry tone you're trying to pull off, but you could care less. "I'm not the only one that showed up by herself."

She laughs easily, glancing to the door of the theater expectantly, "Oh, I didn't come alone. That loser spilled her popcorn all over the hallway and went to get more."

"Who's she?" you ask quietly, the smile has slipped from your face and you're trying really hard to keep an expression that doesn't betray your jealousy. Of course she didn't come to a theater by herself, only idiots like you do that. Your mind is already dredging up images of her and someone else; leaning close during the move, maybe draping an arm around her shoulder, fingers playing with her silky blonde hair.

You hate it.

"My sister," she answers like she owes you and explanation—she doesn't.

"Oh."

The green monster steps off your chest and you take in a shaky breath. You nod slightly, looking at the seat between you to hide your relief. She sits up a little, eyes sweeping over your face and your stomach twists because she can read you like a book.

"I told you she would be in town this week."

"Yeah, I remember," you mumble, crossing your legs and shifting in your chair so you are sitting sideways.

"Who did you think it was?" she's halfway curious halfway cautious. "Sergeant Fabray?"

"No," you roll your eyes. You would much rather see your Platoon Sergeant walk through that door then who you're thinking about. "Even though she would probably throw more candy at me than you have, I wasn't worried about her."

The corner of her lips pulls downward and she's trying to get you to explain without having to ask out loud.

"For a second I thought—maybe," you can feel the heat on your face but you force yourself to keep her eyes so you can see her reaction, "that chick from Nashville."

It almost looks like she has stopped breathing entirely, in the dim light you can still see the color bloom on her neck and ears. She stumbles, lips moving without words.

You feel horrible, "I'm sorry, I know I promised—"

"It's alright," her hand waves you off before slipping through her hair. You don't miss how her eyes are focused on the door to the theater, "but we can't talk about that right now."

"Right now, or… ever?"

You want to talk about it. You want to know what had happened between them and, more than anything, you want her to tell you that it's over. You want her to admit that the slutty skater meant nothing to her. Hearing it will defuse any sense of residual jealously. It will let you know that she's just a shade more available than she had been a few months ago.

Not that it matters, but you'd like to hear it.

Her attention slides back to you and she doesn't exactly answer your question when she says, "Not here."

"So, later then?" you can't stop yourself from asking, even though the whole conversation is risking this very delicate thing you have going.

You _vividly_ remember the medic's face that night in Nashville, and you don't see a trace of that expression on her features now. She had been blindsided then, embarrassed and exposed. No, SSG Pierce looks much calmer with the topic now, you wouldn't have pushed if she had been on that edge.

Slowly, she seems to consider it, and that's all you want—to be considered.

"Maybe," she shrugs like it's no big deal and leans back, kicking her feet onto seat in front of her, "if you're quite during the movie."

You open your mouth to make a smartass comment but she cuts you off with another request.

"And come sit by me."

While you stare, she tosses a few Skittles into her mouth like she's not even worried about you refusing her, and she shouldn't be. You're standing before you can even think to put up a fight for appearances sake. You would never keep her waiting.

"Where are you going?" she looks genuinely confused when you start to go down the aisle of seats, "Just jump over the row."

"I'm not climbing over two rows of seats," you tell her slowly, wondering where her professionalism ran off to.

"Are you scared you'll fall?" she asks deadly serious, "Because that's not very Air Assault of you."

She's making fun of you because, for all she knows, you're a total klutz. How many times have you fallen out of her jeep? And that time you 'tripped' at the training site and banged up your elbow? Yeah, she probably thinks you're _real _smooth. You blink slowly to keep from rolling your eyes and continue down the aisle, "And I'm pretty sure throwing candy isn't in the NCO creed."

"Hey," she puts her hands in the air, displacing all responsibility, "I'm on leave."

You laugh, rounding the end of the row to come back on hers. It's unsettling, how she watches as you walk closer. She's still smiling, but with every step you take the smile changes from the fun-loving to something different, softer around the edges—something private.

"It probably was better that you took the easy way out," the medic takes her comically large box of Skittles from the seat next to her, inviting you to take its spot. It's such a simple gesture, making room for you, but right now it feels like the greatest thing. She wants you there, next to her.

"Why's that?" you ponder for something to say as you sit down slowly, taking your time to arrange yourself. The last thing you need to do is trip into the seat and confirm her suspicion about how lacking your balance is. You recall this feeling of slow torture from the hockey game; when you're so close and yet the armrest might as well be a barbed wire fence between you. You cross your legs, in a nervous habit, your toe taps the back of the chair in front of you.

"I'd like to see anyone try to climb over anything in that skirt."

Her eyes, which had been entirely focused on your skirt, wonder leisurely. They saunter down your legs with such a… tasteful sort of regard. You've been checked out more times in your life than you can count, but this time… your stomach knots in the most pleasant way. You roll your ankle, letting the muscle in your calf stretch and wane, watching her blue eyes follow along.

"It's really cute," she continues, her voice quiet; drawing you in, making you itch to lean in close and hear her tenor, feel her breath on your cheek, "and it goes so well with your shoes."

Her eyes flick back up to yours and for all the coy and blushing glances you might send her way, you're amazed by how easily she can look you dead in the eye, after she was so blatantly checking out your legs, and ask, "Where did you get them?"

Because what's a little fashion talk between women?

You find Staff Sergeant Pierce very intimidating in this moment, realizing that in the game of subtleties, she's in a league of her own.

Out of reaction to her question, you open your mouth to answer, but you're too distracted to string a rational thought together. You simply admit, "I… can't remember."

With a dancing light in her eyes, she takes a breath to respond. She never gets to it, the door to the theater opens and you both look reflexively. It's a blessing because you need to figure out how to breathe again. Your mind is fuzzy from that comment, the eyes on your legs, and the knots in your stomach.

SSG Pierce clears her throat lightly and tells you, "That's my sister, Emily."

You gather yourself and try to focus on the girl, "High school?"

"Yeah, she's a senior this year," the medic catches your attention with a slightly imploring expression, "and she'll probably try to embarrass me so don't believe anything she says."

You have to grin at that, watching the younger Pierce come up the side of the theater. She certainly looks like she could be related to the medic. They share the same slope of the nose, the tone of her skin, that way their eyebrows knit when they're puzzled.

"I got your text," she says when she gets into your row, eyeing you curiously and talking to her sister. "What's with sudden change of venue, I though you wanted to see—"

"It was a last minute thing," SSG Pierce explains smoothly, making sure to not look at you, "I didn't think you'd mind."

"No, of course not. Animated reenactments of Shakespeare are right up there on my list of must sees," she shakes her head with a good-humored bit of sarcasm, shuffling into her seat on the other side of her sister.

"Don't make fun," the medic defends the movie choice, and you're trying to calculate the odds of her seeing you come into this particular cinema and if that would compel her to change her movie choice.

There's no way in hell.

Her sister doesn't seem bothered by the events, setting her popcorn aside so she can reach over to offer you her hand and a smile, "Hi, I'm Emily."

"Santana," you take her hand, but it's an awkward angle, because SSG Peirce is to your right and you don't want to—_do_ _that_.

Emily shakes your hand with enough unexpected enthusiasm that, in the surprise, your forearm brushes the medic's chest in the most divine boob graze you've ever experienced. It's a measly second of contact, but you expect that if you put a fork in an electrical socket for a _measly _second it would feel just as powerfully electrifying. That's the kind of sensation running through your body right now, and it's making your hair stand on end and your skin erupt in goose bumps.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her head tilt away. When you hear a slight intake of breath—a hitched gasp that was so small her sister didn't even resister its existence—you can't help but wonder if she makes those kind of sounds when she—no.

You need to focus.

"It's nice to meet you," you force out with a smile. "You're visiting from..?"

"DC," she grins, taking her hand back. You make sure to avoid all contact as you do the same.

"Washington DC?" you look the older of the sisters, who is popping a Skittle into her mouth and still refusing to look at you. Suddenly, you're more concerned with trying to be subtle about watching the candy disappear then getting an answer.

"My mom works there," she offers as an explanation. It's really no explanation at all.

Emily pushes her similarly colored hair behind her ear and rolls her matching blue eyes. Something passes between them, an old sort of disagreement that you can't make sense of. The moment vanishes before you can really get a handle on it and she's asking you, "So are you a medic too?"

"No," you almost laugh, "I'm not cut out for that level of compassion. If someone came to me about a tummy ache I'd probably just make fun of them."

"Soldiers are kind of whiny " SSG Pierce muses thoughtfully, her eyes slide to you with a playful glint, "and their feet smell."

You flush, thinking of all the times she's been in contact with your feet.

"So you're an MP, like Quinn," she assumes correctly, looking over you again. She knows SFC Fabray. That shouldn't surprise you, the two NCOs go back. They're probably all staying in the same house right now. "What's the craziest thing you've arrested someone for?"

"Um…" you try to think of something good, "we had a peeping tom sneaking around the officer's housing about a month ago."

"Ew," she glances at her sister, "good thing you live off post now."

SSG Pierce scrunches her nose and agrees, "I hated living on base. It's so _suffocating_."

Emily rolls her eyes with a laugh. You get the feeling that it's something she's heard a lot, or something SSG Pierce complained about so often that it has become a joke.

"That must have been why you snuck off so much," Emily throws a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

You give SSG Pierce a curious look and she slouches in her chair, readjusting her feet on the seat in front of her, a sly smile on her face, "Probably, you can never have too much fresh air."

Emily snorts glancing at you with a glint in her eye, "I don't think fresh air was what you were—"

"Shh," SSG Pierce elbows her sister's arm, "the movie's starting."

The lights of the theater dim and the screen flickers into a green ratings notice. You shift in your chair, wanting to ask but deciding it's not the right time. Not that you really have that much one on one time with SSG Pierce anyway, but if the opportunity ever arose… you're not sure what you'd do with it in the first place.

Watching the movie isn't as hard as you had thought it would be, and you're actually paying attention instead of giving yourself something to stare at while you think about everything that's about to change in your life. The Pierces have not stopped laughing and that's just about as entertaining as the cheesy jokes and Elton John produced music numbers. Their sidebar comments are priceless; you're finally able to bask in SSG Pierce's humor without having to worry about who's watching you laugh too loudly at her jokes.

It isn't until the obligatory suspected character death that you realize you're pretty invested. A tight feeling creeps across your chest and you absolutely refuse to cry over some cartoon character in front of SSG Pierce and her sister. Apparently, Emily doesn't have the same pride issues.

She wipes the tears off her cheek and mumble gruffly, "If he's really dead I'm going to be so pissed."

"Aw," SSG Pierce shifts, draping her arm around her sister, "I bet he didn't really die, no one dies in kids movies."

"Tell that to Bambi's mom and Mufasa."

"Oh yeah, I hated that movie," the medic sighs. "I cried so hard when Scar died."

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too widely. They're cute. You can feel the love from your seat. There's something between her and her mom, you've gotten that hint, but it's cool knowing that SSG Pierce is close to her sister.

"Little Britter Bug, crying over bad guys," she sighs in a singsong voice, settling into the medic's shoulder. Emily might not see it, because she's tucked too far under her sister's chin, but you see the look that passes over her SSG Pierce's face. Her eyes are blinking away from the screen, lips thinning, she looks… slighted. "That stupid flamingo's already got me worked up. If it wasn't for the frog, this whole movie would be a train wreck."

SSG Pierce shakes off whatever was bugging her, laughing quietly, "Shakespeare, remember? He's like, the master of train wrecks."

You don't even bother pretending you're watching the movie. You want to know what's going on in her head. She probably feels your eyes, or wants to remind you that it's rude to stare because she looks over at you. All hints of that hurt expression are gone and she says slyly, "It's okay if you cry, Lopez, I won't tell anybody."

"I don't cry," you assure her, glancing to the movie screen and back. The offer though, sounds a lot like a promise, and while you wouldn't ever let her see you like that, you know she honestly wouldn't tell a soul. She would be there for you, somehow you know that. Instead of calling you out she gives you that knowing smile, the smile that makes you feel like she can see right through you.

You kind of like that she can.

The rest of the movie is filled with warm fuzzies and feel good moments and you have to admit it was adorable. The bubbly feeling in your chest is nice and totally worth it. Even after the movie is technically over, you sit with the Pierces and watch the musical number that runs along with the credits. The warm feeling is taking a backseat to the understanding that once they're over, you'll be going your separate ways. This brief moment of casual _normalcy_ between you, when the company or rank didn't quite matter, is over.

The lights turn on and the screen goes black.

"That was so much better than I thought it would be," Emily announces with a pleased smile on her face.

"It was cute," SSG Pierce agrees. Then she turns to you and admits, "It's not something I wouldn't have thought you'd want to see."

You try not to blush, and offer a shrug, "Yeah, well, you can't go wrong with Elton John."

You can see the amusement written all over her face as she follows her sister's lead by standing. Maybe you imagined it, but she seems reluctant and slow to leave her chair. While you're walk out of the theater, the three of you talk easily. It's simple, silly chatter about the characters, the _Romeo and Juliet_ remake Leonardo DiCaprio bombed, and how no one minded that this ending was much happier than the original.

Too soon, you're pushing through the doors of the building exit leading to the parking lot. The midafternoon sun is bright from being in the theater and SSG Pierce is squinting as she looks around, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. You stop and wait next to her because you can feel it coming; you can tell by the look on her face that she's about to say something kind of serious. Her sister gets the hint and holds her hand out; SSG Pierce is already pulling her keys from her pocket.

Keys in hand, Emily turns to you with open arms, "It was really nice meeting you, Santana. Please stay safe over there."

You're surprised by the sincerity of her embrace. She hugs you like she means it, there's no foot of space between your bottom halves, or awkward back patting. She's genuine, just like her sister. You make sure you return the gesture, "Totally, and good luck with your senior year, live it up."

She pulls back with a charmingly familiar smile, promising you that she's going to have the time of her life before she's shipped off to the academy. SSG Pierce waits until she's out of ear short before turning to you. Her eyes are kind, but more concerned than you'd like them to be, "How are you doing?"

"Fine," you shrug, watching a family leave the theater. "I get that you're worried about me going solo this week, but I can handle myself."

"You came to the movies alone," she states the obvious like it's all the proof she needs.

You flip your hair over your shoulder as you look up to meet her eyes, "It's not like it stayed that way."

She shifts in her shoes, pressing her hands deeper into her pockets. She didn't let it stay that way. Somehow she made it into the theater you were sitting in. She changed her plans to get into that theater.

You have to know, "Did you see me walk in?"

"I saw a truck in the parking lot," SSG Pierce admits, glancing away. "It belongs to Evans, right?"

"He let me drive it back," you say in a breath. She had been on the lookout for you since before she even stepped foot in the theater. "His parents are bringing him back and staying through family day."

"I'm going to send you a text later this week," she tells you in that tone of voice that asks you not to argue with her.

You do anyway, because it means so much to you that she even cares, that you need to put on a front to keep it from showing, "Really, I'll be fine, I don't need you to check up on me. It's just another, what, five days?"

"I know that you can take care of yourself. I get that, and I respect it," she frowns softly and finally looks at you again. Your front is breaking under her weighted stare. "I'm just trying to do the right thing here."

It's also something she _wants_ to do. For you. She wants to make sure you don't go off the deep end worrying about this deployment with no one around to take your mind off of it. You don't know why you're being so stubborn about it anymore. Sometimes you can be too stubborn for your own good.

You watch her out of the corner of your eye, "Are you going to tell Fabray?"

SSG Pierce crosses her arms, "Not if you promise to call me if you need anything. Like, if you go out and need a ride home, or to talk, or whatever."

She's leaving it open for you again; whatever you're comfortable with, whatever you need, she wants to help. She wants to be there for you.

"I will."

"Good," she gives you a thankful smile and takes a backwards step towards the parking lot, "but I have to go, if I leave my sister alone for too long she'll hijack my jeep so…"

"Yeah," you watch her take a few more steps backwards. Your heart sinking with every step.

"This was fun though," she tilts her head, her smile turning slightly devious and you both feel like you got away with something against the rules. Finally, she turns towards the parking lot, and walks off.

As you watch her leave you try, you really do try, to keep from letting your focus wonder. It doesn't work. She looks too nice in those jeans to let the view go to waste. It's going to be an entire year before you get the chance to see her in civilian clothes again so you're going to appreciate it while you can.

Maybe she can feel your eyes on her, maybe she knew you would be watching her walk away, but she looks back. A curtain of blonde swaying with the turn of her head, and it's almost as beautiful as the charmed smile on her face. Before you can look away with an awkward blush, she raises her hand to her mouth and calls back to you, "They're Buckle."

Buckle? What buckle—oh, the brand. She's giving you the brand name of her jeans.

When she sees the realization on in your expression, her bright eyes turn back towards the parking lot, she slips into the mess of cars, and she's gone. You stay exactly where you are, blushing harder than you've ever blushed in your life. This is probably the second time she's caught you checking her out, but this time you can't keep the smirk off your face.

Because what's a little fashion talk between women?

* * *

Her first text comes two days later and you're almost annoyed because you had spent all day yesterday hoping and waiting for it. You might have checked your phone upwards of a hundred times and you're glad that no one could see you act like that.

_"What are you doing today?"_

You stare at the message. Is this her trying to check up on you? Should you tell her you have a bunch of stuff to do so she doesn't have to worry that you're sitting alone in your room? Or is this her trying to ask you if you want to do something today... with her? Would she ask that? She knows the boundaries better than you do, all you do is follow her lead.

You decide to be honest and text back, _"I don't have plans."_

Three minutes tick by as you watch your phone to be sure you don't miss her response.

_"Do you fish?"_

Fish? As in fishing? Like, with a pole and worms?

_"I've never been fishing before."_

_"Want to learn?"_

You will never say no to her.

Not when she offers to teach you something, not when you can spend some time with her, not ever.

That's how you find yourself driving out gate ten, heading towards the Outdoor Recreation facility. When you pull into the parking lot you see her jeep parked in the far corner. You park a few spots away and jump out of the truck before your nerves can get the best of you. Your hands wring together in front of your stomach. As you move towards the jeep, you can't help but look around the parking lot, anxious and uncertain of the rules.

If someone from you company were to see you going on a fishing trip with SSG Pierce… would they say something? Would it be as big a deal as you think it would be?

You don't really want to find out.

You head around to the driver's side, just to make sure she isn't in the cab before you go into the building. You hear her before you see her. Peeking around the cab, you see her leaning against the bumper, from the angle you can't see her face, but you can see the phone she's holding to her ear and you can hear tremor in her voice.

"That sounds like so much fun. I bet you guys are going to have a blast."

Her words are stiff, but brittle. They're strung together with tiny wavers and a bare flicker of a laugh. She's trying to be happy and it's obvious that she's trying. It's rather heartbreaking, and your body wants to curl into itself to keep the secondhand sadness away. You want to know what you can do to make it better, you'd find a way. Anything at all, you would do it.

"But look, Em… I wanted to say—I know, but graduation is a big deal and… and I'm really sorry I'm going to miss it."

She's missing her sister's graduation for this deployment. It upsets you because Emily is a good girl and SSG Pierce sounds like she's about to cry and you just want to hug her. Your hands flex uneasily and you kind of hug yourself, one hand around your ribs and the other tucked under your chin, listening to her thank her sister for coming to visit, and she's going to miss her very much, and one final, "I love you."

Her voice breaks and you bite your lip. The rest of the goodbye is mumbled and when she ends the connection she takes a deep breath to calm herself, shoving her phone into the pocket of her shorts. Her hand moves to her face and you can imagine she's wiping away tears; you almost want to see them. This is the most vulnerable you've ever seen her, when her guard is in a heap around her ankles and she doesn't have to put on a tough face for the soldiers around her.

Soldiers like you.

By the time you've realized that you shouldn't be watching her like this she's already turned towards you. Her eyes are red and shining with tears. As soon as she sees you she blinks away, trying to hide her surprise and that understandable look of shame. Soldiers shouldn't see their leaders like this.

The medic clears her throat, brushing her hair back, "I didn't hear you come up, I was…"

She can't quite finish and her lips tuck into a frustrated frown. She's supposed to be the strong one and she thinks it's embarrassing that she's this worked up. You know the feeling, when there's a frog in your throat and wishing you could get your shit together just makes you choke up that much more.

Wanting to let her know that there's no pressure, you offer quietly, "We don't have to talk about it."

SSG Pierce swallows, her eyes wandering into the trees above you. She blinks a few more times, clearing away the last of the tears, and taking a much steadier breath, "I'm guessing you don't have a fishing license?"

"Nope, I've never even held a pole before," you shrug. "To tell you the truth, the worm thing kind of freaks me out. They're all," you make this awkward hand gesture, "wiggly and shit."

A lopsided grin spreads across her face and a giggle spills out. The giggle tumbles into a laugh and soon she's holding herself up on the back of her jeep. It's honestly the best thing you've ever heard, her laughing so broadly that it warms you all over. You can feel the sound bouncing around your skull, sinking into your bones, filling your heart with her small show of happiness. You smile along because you're so glad, and maybe even kind of proud, that she's laughing. You'll admit all of your embarrassing secrets if it'll keep her from being sad again.

"Come on," she steps forward towards the building, lightly knocking your shoulders together as she passes, "let's go get you a license so we won't get a ticket from some MP with nothing better to do with their lives."

You scoff, catching the smile she sends you over her shoulder, "I'm pretty sure I'd be able to talk them out of writing us up."

"I'm glad you're so sure of yourself," she sends you a sideways look.

"Is that code for cocky?" you ask with probing narrow eyes.

She laughs at your expression, "Maybe."

You're too busy being distracted by how she so casually flips her hair back in the most beautiful display of blonde you've ever seen to be too insulted. In fact, all you can do is smile along with her, lost in the moment so it comes naturally to catch the door before she can get to it.

Her eyes skate from you to the door and back, the smallest hesitation in her step. You don't understand.

"But you know what they say about cocky," she continues smoothly.

There's a tickle in the air. A double meaning hidden under her words, she's teasing you about something and you think you might know what it is. The only think you know about what _they_ say about being cocky is what _she's _said about it.

Some people can be cocky and make it nearly charming.

Suddenly, holding the door open for her means more than a simple common courtesy, and the light in her eyes—that subtlety thrilled shine—makes you brash. You tilt your head toward the door, opening it just a hair further. You can't say it ask it out loud, because that would ruin the semiprofessional illusion dancing around you.

She can read your expression well enough to know. Her eyes roll with a little amused shake of her head, like she can't believe she's admitting, "You're getting closer."

Closer to _charming._

SSG Pierce is through the door and at the counter before you can respond, which is probably for the better. With a sigh, you check yourself before you walk in. She called you because she's lonely, her sister left last night and she's won't see her again for another year.

She probably doesn't want to deal with your less than subtle behavior. While she might be brushing them off as attempts to get her to smile, you know that delusion won't last if you keep it up. And you want this to last as long as it can. Besides, the last time something got… tense between you, she shot you in the foot. You really don't want to relive that experience.

The nice lady behind the desk takes your information and issues you a fishing license for the day. She asks you if you'd prefer a week or seasonal one, but you tell her you're fine with a day pass. It's not like you'd be able to use a fishing license in Iraq. This is one more way you're realizing your life in the real world is limited.

You sign the paperwork and look over to the cooler where SSG Pierce is holding a styrofoam container of worms. She has the top off and is poking around in the dirt like she's needs to prove the worms are really in there.

"That's gross."

You make a face and SSG Pierce shares a laugh with the lady behind the counter.

"I'm not baiting your hook, so you're gonna have to toughen up," she tells you with a challenging look, still poking the worms.

You have to ask, "Why are you playing with them?"

"That's how you find the best bait," she comes to the counter with the unlucky worms. "Look, these are feisty."

She tilts the container to show you the squirming things. They are particularly… lively. Most are half buried in dirt and trying to get deeper into the soil. One brave soul is inching towards the styrofoam edge, clearly trying to make a break for it. You try to stifle your shudder but it doesn't work. She laughs again, capping the container. You take solace in her laugh, because it's warm and bright and the makes you feel privileged to be here to hear it.

You'll deal with the worms.

The woman tells you that there's been good luck at a certain lake and wishes you a good time. SSG Pierce thanks her and leads you back out to her jeep. When you climb in, and situate yourself on this seat in her jeep, it feels… like your spot.

Determined, you hold out your hand and she doesn't hesitate to hand over the container. You know she thinks you're funny, trying to prove that you're not scared of a box of worms. You don't mind because you're _not_ scared of a box of worms. And your worm is going to get on that hook if it's the last thing you do. You might have to use the entire ride out to prepare yourself, but it's going to happen.

The engine roars and she just smiles.

The ride is easier going then you would have thought it to be. Sometimes you can be so awkward around people. Especially when you know that this small outing isn't the most professionally plausible thing to ever happen in the history of the Army. No matter, you feel like were meant to sit there beside her and grove along to some ridiculous pop songs.

Together. You're going to enjoy it while it lasts.

You love the way her head bobs to the music, how she mouths the words and says some of them under her breath. You wonder if she sings out loud when she's alone. It's a fricken beautiful day out, the sun's all pretty up in the mid-afternoon sky and you're glad to have remembered your sunglasses; to block out pesky UV rays, and because they give you the confidence to discreetly check out SSG Pierce's legs.

Her shorts are really a pair of jeans she must have cut off at the knees a while ago. They're so threadbare that you want to know how long she's had them. She's so flawlessly beautiful in a tee shirt and an old pair of shorts. The aviators are a nice touch. A rather sexy touch.

Soon enough she's pulling off the main road and onto a gravel path. There's small signs directing the way but she doesn't even glance at them. You know she has this place mapped out from memory and you don't once question her sense of direction. She's a Pathfinder after all.

You're not only impressed with her, but the scenery is pretty awesome too, "I never knew Fort Campbell had lakes like this."

"I know," she grins, parking under a tree without any hesitation, she's been here so many times she has her claimed parking spot, "isn't it pretty?"

You agree with a nod, following her out of the jeep and towards the tailgate to grab everything you'll need. The lake is a decent size, not exactly round, but the funky shape gives it character. SSG Pierce is leads you to the wooden dock with casual confidence that makes you like you belong here out of association. Really you just want to sit in the sun and watch her exist.

She's excited to be out here. You can see it in the way she's looking around, trying to take it all in and figure out if anything's changed since she last visited. Her smile might be brighter than the sun. She waves to the man kayaking in the middle of water.

He waves back and it makes you curious, "Do you know him?"

"No," she doesn't seem to think that part is important and settles down at the edge of the dock.

The wood planks creek under your feet and the breeze is pulling your hair around your shoulders. The sky is bluer than in the city, the long grass around the lake greener, or maybe it only looks that way because you're so happy to be here. The whole thing feels so natural and authentic. For your first fishing trip, you doubt you'll ever forget it.

You catch up to her at the end of the dock; setting the cooler she had you carry next to the tackle box and fishing poles.

"I think I was six, when my dad first took me fishing," she takes off her sunglasses and squints across the water, looking at the trees again. "I cried when I realized they always die."

"The fish?" you sit down next to her, trying to figure out how much distance is appropriate without being too obvious. Because she did it first, you take off your sunglasses, smiling a little at her confession. It's cute, thinking about her worrying over a fish. "Can't you always throw it back?"

"You can," she sighs, opening the cooler and pulling out a pair of beers, handing you one. You're surprised at the choice but you don't mention it, or complain. "But I was thinking about the worms."

You're not sure what to say about that. You can't bring yourself to think that you would ever be sympathetic to a few creeper worms, so you deflect, "It's kind of cool that your dad took you out to do stuff like that. If your mom was career Air Force, was your dad… around more?"

She nods, popping the top to her beer and taking a sip, "Yeah, he got out early so he could be a fulltime dad. It was awesome; he was the only guy at PTA meetings and at the FRG kind of stuff. I love him for it."

You thought she would want to jump right into it, but this is nice. Watching her scoot to the edge of the dock and pulling off her sandals so she can slip her feet into the water—only a toe at first, testing the temperature. Her ankle rotates letting her toes swirl the water's surface before she submerges one foot and then the other.

She shivers, so you ask, "Cold?"

"Kinda," she kicks her feet around making small waves. "What about your dad, you've never…"

"Yeah, I don't know," you frown, reaching down to slip off your flip flops. "We don't really talk. My parents split when I was a kid. He's still in the area, but… no."

You wonder if you're being too dramatic when you're supposed to be keeping her mind off her sister. She seems more concerned with your comfort when she smiles softly and asks, "You ready to catch a fish?"

"I'm not getting my hopes up," you chuckle, taking another drink of your beer. "Do you normally catch anything?"

"No, not in these lakes," she turns at her waist to pull her fishing pole towards her, you grab the other. "I used to go all the time at Carson; had a lot more luck there."

She takes you through the process, stringing your line, how to tie on your hook, she makes sure you're doing everything right without being too overbearing. It's a refreshing break from the way some NCOs look over your shoulder just waiting for a mistake they can correct. Finally, when you have your weights on the line, she pulls out the container of worms, setting it between you and taking off the top. You watch her poke through the black dirt until she finds her unlucky victim.

"Nice and fat," she smirks, probably more amused by the expression on your face than the reaping of helpless worms.

"You're horrible," you don't mean it at all.

"Gotta catch a fish," she rests the end of her pole across her lap and takes up her hook, "that's the whole reason we're here, right?"

You wish there was something else to that reason. Catching a fish isn't exactly high on your list of priorities. Finding any possible reason to spend time with her? Yeah, that's pretty high up there.

You can remember the last time you held a worm. Sure, you were a kid, but you can't forget the way the entire thing writhed with those oddly strong muscles and all you could think about was how gross it was. Now you realize that the poor thing was wiggling for its life.

If there was a way to be clinical about putting a worm on a hook, she somehow manages it. You think it's because of her medical training; she can detach herself in a way you haven't figured out how to mimic yet.

She spears the hook through it without blinking an eye.

You're pretty sure she's seen worse.

"I was kidding earlier," she offers casually, "I'll help you with your worms if you need it."

"I can do it," you assure her, looking at the container like it's the key to your pride.

Wiping the dirt off her fingers she asks, "Do you know how to cast your line?"

"No," you examine the reel skeptically. You know if you turn the knob on the side it will pull in the line, you've seen that much on television. You're not sure what the button does.

"Here, these poles have the buttons on them so they're easier," she holds the pole like you would expect and shows you her thumb on a button at the base of the reel. "You press it, cast, and let go when you're at the top of the arch."

You're not sure you get it, but when she draws back she talks herself through the motions.

"Press the button, cast, and release." There's a satisfying plop when her worm hits the surface a respectable distance into the water and she turns to you, "You get it?"

"Yeah, I think," you don't think it looks that hard. But then again, SSG Pierce makes everything look so easy. Including putting bait on a hook.

She lets you fiddle, working yourself up to the task at hand. You watch the worms in the container, squirming their way deeper into the dirt to avoid being taken alive. You feel bad, even if they're just worms, you feel bad. If you keep fretting like this you're going to find out just how easy it is to cry over worms.

You're so pathetic.

There's a smile in her voice, kind and gentle, when she asks you, "Hold this?"

You take her pole, glad for a distraction from the worm dilemma you were facing. She scoops up a worm and the hook from your other hand.

When you realize what she's going to do you backpedal, "I can—"

"I know you can," she promises with a helpless smile, speaking kind of softer, "but I want to do it."

"You don't have to—"

She looks away for a second, coming back with a shy expression, "But I want to. I used to do it for my sister all the time… so…"

She's giving you a reason to put your pride away and it's working. You nod like she needs your permission and the thankful smile she gives you makes up for the shame brewing in your stomach. She finishes with the task in just a matter of seconds, wiping her fingers on the wood of the deck, "There we go."

You're trying so hard to not feel embarrassed, and her easy smile is helping, but you still feel like a little girl when you mumble, "Thanks."

"Anytime," the smile on her face falters, because saying _anytime_ implies that there will be other times, and that's not something either of you can promise. She moves on by taking a drink, "Now let's see you cast."

You hand her back her fishing rod and take the challenge, knowing what's left of your dignity is riding on this. You press the button, draw back, and thankfully everything works out. Your worm plunks into the water close enough to her line to be a decent toss. You can't stop the smile that comes to your face, "Look, I'm a natural."

"Naturally cocky," she shakes her head, taking another drink to hide her smile.

You reel in a few inches of line and take it as a compliment, "Um… why didn't Emily stay until family day?"

"She's big part of her school's JROTC program," SSG Pierce busies herself with her line, but you can hear the pride in her voice. "They're planning this big event and if she gets credited for being the leader of the fancy setup committee, that will look really good on her academy application."

"The Air Force Academy, right?"

"Yeah, she's following the Pierce family roadmap a little better than me," the medic lets out a soft laugh, "but don't think she's blowing me off, I was the one that told her that she needs to go back in time for it. This deployment is temporary; she needs to start putting together the pieces of her life puzzle. That's what really matters."

You understand. She's realistic enough to recognize her sister's opportunity. You wish her the best. You can see Emily going far; she has that same bubbling, natural confidence that her sister projects so easily. A comfortable silence falls around the dock, only broken by the breeze and the odd bird call.

It's probably about ten minutes, and the rest your beer, later when you ask, "Is this deployment going to suck as much as everyone says it's going to?"

She snorts, halfway through her second beer, "That all depends on how easily you embrace the suck."

"No," you frown sarcastically, "I can't say that I'm very good at that."

She sets her beer aside and reels in the rest of her line. You watch as she checks her worm and recasts smoothly. Even as the worm falls into the water, somewhere far off in the distance for all you know, you're still entirely focused on the way she looks at you when she says, "You need to learn."

That somber tone doesn't seem right for her tongue and your own voice catches in your throat. The imploring depth in her eyes makes you think that it's not just a simple bit of advice. She's asking you to do this for your own benefit.

You're sure you can take a lot. But you know she's already taken more than you know. You won't be weak, but she's already had to be strong; through her deployments, losing her friends, needing to live the life you've only ever trained for. Despite all of that, she still can genuinely smile, where other sergeants are only skating by on broken relationships and empty bottles.

SSG Pierce is trying to give you the secret, because you know, "These things mess people up."

"We all go a little crazy," she shrugs, with an odd smile, "some more than others. Things that don't usually bug us will suddenly be the end of the world. You'll feel like no one understands what you're going through even though they've been there the whole time. Fuses get short, buttons get bigger, and people… lose their minds. It's all part of the game."

Quietly, so softly you almost hope she doesn't hear, you admit, "I don't want to go crazy."

She hears you, and gives you a playful smile to lighten the mood, "Your level of crazy totally goes hand in hand with your ability to let everything roll off your back. You can't let it get to you."

You think of all the ways people change. You've heard the horror stories about alcoholics, families being torn apart, people seeing things that will never let them look at the world the same way again. They're always on edge, waiting for the guy around the corner, waiting for the next attack. That's the extreme, you get that, for most everyone it's… subtle; jumping at loud noises, hitting that angry switch a little sooner than the average person.

You think of your Platoon Sergeant.

"Where's Sergeant Fabray?" you ask more conversationally than you mean it.

"Hanging out with her niece," she glances over to you with probing eyes. It's obvious that she's realized your connection with her friend and going crazy. She doesn't like the idea. "I thought she'd met you."

"I met a girl named Beth," you leave it at that, because the mommy drama isn't any of your business and you're not about to tell your Platoon Sergeant's best friend that her alleged niece thinks she's really her daughter. But she's caught on to your tone, her eyes questioning you gently. You deflect, "She's a sweet girl, and we messed around on that dinky obstacle pit while Fabray was in her big meeting."

That makes her smile, "I think it's really cool that you're so good with kids."

You scoff, self-conscious and defensive, "I'm not good with kids, kids are good at flocking to the one person that wants nothing to do with them."

"That's not true," she calls you out easily, her smile growing softer, "I saw you with that girl at the FRG picnic. Deny it all you want, but you looked like two peas in a pod. It was cute."

"You think so?" you quirk an eyebrow and try to keep from blushing too hard, "because you were totally mean mugging me when you saw me with that kid."

Her mouth falls open, looking offended, "I did not—I was not mean mugging you."

Her blush tells an entirely different story. You marvel in it and when she notices your stare she looks towards the lake to try and save face. The new angle only lets you see how pink her ears are.

"I was kinda surprised is all," she mumbles, her feet swaying in the water. "I thought… I thought she was your daughter or something and I felt—you hadn't ever mentioned having a kid."

You're not sure which is more unsettling to her, that you could have had a child or that you hadn't mentioned it to her.

She tries to give you a logical reason for being upset at finding you with a child, "And with the deployment coming up, it's sad to see families together, because I know we're going to be leaving soon so… that's what all that was about, I wasn't trying to mean mug you or whatever."

When she finishes with her explanation, that sounded like she's saying it for her benefit too, SSG Pierce keeps her eyes downcast on the water.

"Hey," you kick your foot out, splashing her shin with a few droplets of water. She looks at your without moving her head too much, a curious sideways examination that reminds you of a cat in the most adorable way. "No harm no foul, alright? And for the record I don't have any secret children running around."

"Same here," her chuckle is light, but telling.

You're pretty sure _someone_ has a secret kid running around, but that's not your place.

* * *

You didn't catch anything, and SSG Pierce isn't that put out about it. The sun is sinking and the shadows are creeping up around you, crawling out from the thick woods slowly. The last of the sunlight is a deep orange, dancing along the tops of the trees and a glimmering across the water. You've long taken your toes out of the water but you'll never forget how it felt. Or what this place looks like. You promise yourself you'll come back. You'll bring Evans and you'll have fun one day.

In the meantime, you're reeling in the last of your line, scowling when you hook appears with a sorry excuse for a worm.

"Look at what those assholes did to my worm."

SSG Pierce laughs, pulling out a hook very similar to your own, "Darn fish, nibbling them to death."

"It's a shame," you scrape the hook clean on the edge of the deck and mimic the way SSG Pierce is prepping her own for transportation. The two of you pack up easily enough and haul it back to the jeep without any trouble. It's awesome, how you work together so well. Your hand is already out to take the fishing rods so she can lower the tailgate, and as soon as her hands are empty she's reaching over to help you shove in the cooler. Not that you needed help, but when her hand slips against the smooth plastic and brushes with yours, you forget to make a comment about how you could have done it yourself.

When the tailgate is up and you're both wiping your hands on your thighs like you actually did some work, grinning at each other from the corner of your eyes.

"I hope you had fun," she scratches her nose, "I know this might not really been you thing."

As long as you're with her, anything could be your thing.

"I did have fun," you shift, one foot drawing up behind the other, hands buried in your pockets. "And thank you, for teaching me how to fish. It might come in handy one day."

You're thinking about the vaguely chance that this might happen again. Somewhere, someday, with her.

Her eyes light up, maybe she's thinking the same thing.

"Good thing we're headed to the desert," she teases, laughing softly.

She's bubbling with such a happy glow. She's happy; here, with you. And maybe, you've found the way you'll be able to embrace the suck, because if you're with her, doing that deployment thing together, maybe you'll be able to remember moments like this and you'll have a reason to smile.

Because as long as you're with her, the world could burn around you, and all you'd care about is that she's by your side.

"You never know," the smile tugging on your lips is one part bashful and one part hopeful, "we might have better luck in the desert."

"Yeah," her teeth run across her bottom lip, one corner of her mouth quirking up, "I could see our luck changing."


	18. DA Form 7425

DA Form 7425: Readiness and Deployment Checklist.

* * *

You see her before your dad. It's always like that, because your mom is powerful. She draws the eye like the tallest tree in the forest. She can part a crowd in a smile word of pardon, and she carries herself with such purpose you'd believe her walk to the baggage carousel could end world hunger. It isn't long before she spots you, her eyes quick and always focused. You see the smile in them and it matches the one on your face. You're so happy to see her and you dad, who's just behind her left shoulder.

You've missed them.

You didn't realize how much until you're hugging her like you're five years old again, and like a child, your world collapses into the one person that matters most. The people around you fade away, and the baggage carousel might as well be a space station. All you know it that she's here. She came for you.

She smells the same, almost like a memory, a mix of coffee and worn leather. Her jacket is to blame for that last part—the damn thing is the most welcome eyesore you've ever known and it's the only jacket that's ever mattered to her. She always wears when she comes to see you.

"Brittany," your mom takes your shoulders and holds you at arm's length. Carolyn Pierce likes to look at her daughters, measure them against their last meeting, and see how far they've come.

You hope she likes what she sees and it makes you fidget, fiddling with the patches sewn onto her flight jacket sleeves. They're worn and threadbare by now, soft under your fingers. Like always, your eyes seem to get caught on your family name and that pair of wings over her heart.

"It's good to see you," she squeezes your shoulders then let's go, taking a half step back. You want to follow. "Your sister is still cursing me for not letting her come along."

"I talked to her last night," you smile at your dad when he slings his arm around your shoulders. "I'm not gonna lie, it was really hard putting her on that plane back to DC."

"Thank you," your dad kisses your hair, "for helping us convince her to stay home and focus on her school program."

Your mom is quick to follow up with, "It'll be good for her in the long run, you understand."

The thing is, you do understand it. You didn't push Emily to go back to her JROTC program for your parent's sake, you did it for hers. Deliberately keeping your mother's eyes, and taking just the barest pause before you respond, is the only way you can show how you really feel.

What you actually say is, "Of course."

When she looks at you this time, with her steadfast patience, you feel like a child all over again. As a woman who once commanded an entire Air Base, she is so used to being one step ahead of everyone, that she's become convinced no one could ever be on the same page as her. She has a weight in her heart, some tiresome burden, like she's the only one that realizes thousands of Storm Troopers died when the Death Star was destroyed. You have never been able to convince her that you can keep up.

She takes her bag from your dad and looks around for the exit, "Now, where did you park?"

This is familiar too. There will be no dilly dallying, no action without purpose. You point your mom in the right direction and she takes off, assured that you and your dad will follow.

"Tell me about your unit," she looks over her shoulder. "Are they competent? Or at least confident that they know what they're doing?"

"A little too confident if you ask me," you tell her honestly. "They're all so full of themselves, but we have a good First Sergeant and a few strong Platoon Sergeants, so we should be fine."

There's more questions about the unit, your soldiers and how your transfer from Carson went. When you get loaded up the jeep your mom changes your radio station, and asks, "And what about everything else?"

"I've been speaking to First Sergeant about a possible Drill Sergeant application when we get back from Iraq. Some time on the trail will look great on my E7 packet."

"That's a good start," she nods as she considers it, "but that's not what I meant."

With a wry smile you wonder, "What else is there?"

She sends you a sideways look and your dad chuckles from the back seat.

"Seriously, mom, what do you want to know?"

"I wouldn't have to ask if you would ever update your Facebook," she grouses, taking a look out the window as you leave the parking garage.

"Oh, don't even," you laugh, "the only thing on your Facebook is your name and that you're married to dad. There's not even a picture."

"That's because the only reason I have that thing is to keep up with my daughters."

"Well, not a whole lot is going on," you shrug, merging onto the highway to get back to Clarksville. "I told you that Quinn is living with me, which has probably been the best thing to happen since I left Carson."

"I can't believe you two have ended up together again," surprised as he is, your dad sounds happy with the idea.

"The Army's a small place," and after a moment you continue with, "her daughter-slash-niece has been visiting so it would be sweet if you'd all like, play along with that."

"That poor girl."

You're not sure who she means, Quinn or Beth, but you agree wholeheartedly.

* * *

Quinn and Beth are playing basketball in the driveway when you get back from the airport and you park on the curb so they can keep playing. You're not surprised when your parents are quick to get out and greet them. It's been a while since they've seen Quinn.

Way back when, in the few weeks before your first deployment, Quinn was in the same position SPC Lopez is in right now. Not a scrap of family to her name and nowhere to go. It wasn't even a question to invite her along with you home. Your parents took to her in their own ways. Your dad made sure that every time he sent you a care package, Quinn got one too, and he even invited her back when the deployment was over.

"Colonel Pierce," Quinn brings her hand up in a sharp salute, a beaming smile on her face.

Your mom adores her, returning the smile and the salute, dropping it only to shake Quinn's hand, "Sergeant Fabray, it's been too long."

"You always leave out the retired part, Quinn," your dad teases. "This old bird doesn't need any more hot air."

"Leadership doesn't retire, sir," Quinn shakes his hand too. She's such a ham around your parents but it's great.

"Smart girl," your mom agrees. She glances back at you, "Such smart girls we have here."

Your eyes dart away shyly.

"Quinn, I thought I was just sending you care packages," you dad hugs her but is looking at Beth. He lowers his voice a little, "It's a little soon for you to be deploying again, don't you think? You got back not eight months ago."

"The Army says I only have to be home for ninety days," she shrugs, acting like it's a bad turn of luck. You know better.

They talk some more and you wander over to Beth, who's watching in that bored way kids do. Having her stay here has been the most heart wrecking thing in the world, because she's such a great kid. She's light footed and quick tongued, and just so much like her mother.

Watching them together kills you. It hurts to see Quinn like this. She's happy. She is _so_ happy. There's a life to her you've never seen before. It's veiled, of course, kept in check because she knows—you all know—this is going to end very soon, but that doesn't stop any of you from making the most of it.

"Hey, you. How's the game?"

"I'm winning," she tells you quietly, "like, actually winning. I think she stopped letting me win a while ago and now she's really trying."

You laugh at that, "And you're still winning?"

"Seven to four."

"That's awesome."

She scuffs her shoe against the driveway, "Are those your parents?"

"They are," you glance back at them, catching your mom watching. "They're gonna be staying with us until Quinn and I leave. They're nice, so don't worry about that."

"Are they in the Army too?"

"No," you chuckle about that ridiculous idea, "they used to be in the Air Force. My mom was a pilot."

"What did your dad do?"

"He worked in those command towers that tell planes when they're allowed to take off."

She considers it for a moment before telling you, "That's not as cool as flying planes."

You keel down like you're telling her a secret, "He knows, but that's the coolest part about my dad, he's never cared about how cool he is. Come on, let me introduce you."

Like you had promised her, your parents are very friendly. They give her their first names and tell her that she's the prettiest little thing they've ever seen. You can't remember the last time your mom has smiled like that, all wistful and nostalgic like. There's a soft shine of pride in her eyes when she squeezes Quinn's arm and asks for help getting the bags. You watch them walk over the jeep, heads bowed in quiet conversation.

You're surprised at that stings. Unreasonably, you feel like you've let her down. Lacking in something you didn't even realize could be expected of you. You try to not let it bother you. Quinn needs someone to be proud of her too. You could never hold that against her. You only wished your mom looked at you like that sometime.

The arms closing around you take you by surprise, but only for a second. He knows, he always knows, when your rainclouds are near. Your dad holds you close and speaks into your hair, "You're everything we could have ever hoped for, Brittany. You're everything and more."

You hug him back and beg yourself to believe it.

* * *

"Good morning, Titans!" First Sergeant yells across the company courtyard.

"Good morning, First Sergeant," is echoed back.

"I don't want to keep you," she crosses her arms over her chest and nods to the people waiting at the edges of the grass, the families that have brought their soldiers back from leave for this accountability formation.

It's nice seeing everyone again. Some of you look freshly tanned and others look like they're still suffering from jetlag. Motta and Flanagan got back okay and you're thankful for it. You ask if they had fun on leave and they say that they wish they were still there. You don't blame them at all.

Per usual, First Sergeant doesn't look happy, "I'd just like to make you all aware that one of us has gone AWOL."

There's a ripple of whispers through the formation. You had already heard from Quinn about the First Platoon soldier that never returned to post.

"PFC Johnston is missing and is not picking up his phone. At first, we were concerned for his safety, thinking that possibly, he's ended up in a ditch on his way back to post," she offers a shrug, "but according to the few friends he had among the company, he has deleted all social networking profiles. The family listed as his emergency contacts are not giving us any information about his whereabouts. This leads me to believe he has no intention of returning and doesn't want to be found."

You can't argue with her logic.

"That's fine, the Sergeant Major and I have notified law enforcement officials. They'll find his ass and throw him in jail," First Sergeant waves it off. "Let's take this as a blessing, Titans."

The First Platoon Sergeant agrees, "Good riddance, I say."

"Think about it Titans, all of you have been working your tails off for months to prepare for this deployment," Captain Schuester speaks up from her side. "You have sweat together, hurt together, and grown _together_. It's a respect for that bond that has brought you all back to this post, knowing full well what's intended for you when you do, and it's that bond that will make sure we all come back to this post when all is said and done."

"We don't want a _coward_ like that in our ranks," First Sergeant Sylvester growls. "The man on your left and your right, those are the only people you can trust."

She wants everyone to realize that simply coming back from the few allotted weeks of freedom is a sign of commitment. Everyone standing in this formation chose to come back, knowing they would be handed a ticket to the desert as soon as they walked through the gates. In that way, it's known that you can count on each other.

"On a lighter note, congratulations go out the Specialist formally known as Cohen-Chang," First Sergeant gestures to Second Platoon, "who was married over leave. These nuptials have reduced the number of syllables needed to address her and for that, we are thankful. From now on she will be referred to as simply, Chang. Did anyone else get married over leave?"

There's one hand that goes up.

"Did anyone get into trouble?" she eyes you all like she already knows the answer. "Any DUIs, drunken disorderly charges, or domestic incidents? This is your one alibi. We will find out."

She waits.

"Come on, speeding tickets? Someone had to of gotten a speeding ticket."

There's no answer.

"Alright, Titans, stay safe tonight, spend time with the people who give two shits about you because you won't find that where we're going, and if _any _of you _dare_," she puts her hands on her hips, "show up to the ceremony this afternoon with even a trace of alcohol on you, you might as well call up your congressperson now because by the time I'm done with you, you won't remember what state you're from."

Everyone here knows she means it.

When everyone is dismissed from formation, Motta and Flanagan stick by your side, waiting for you to release them. You have a few things to go over, "Now be real with me, did anything crazy happen over leave that I need to know about?"

They shake their heads, "No, Sergeant."

"Good," you can see that they're telling the truth and that makes you feel better. "You guys have family in town?"

"Yes, Sergeant," Flanagan points to where his mom and dad are standing in front of a gray Honda Civic. "We're staying at a hotel in town until we go."

"Same here, Sergeant," Motta's offers, looking anxious to get back to her own family.

"Alright, three o'clock at the flight line. The ceremony is going to be in this big air hangar in Aviation Land on the north side of post. The FRG is posting signs to point families in the right direction so as long as you stay on Wickham Avenue, you should see them."

"Yes, Sergeant."

Their spirits are a little down; you see that they're overwhelmed and simply going with the motions. That's fine, their minds won't wrap around what's going on until about two months in. Autopilot is better than nothing.

"I'll see you guys there, okay?" you're glad their families could make it down, they need all the support they can get. "Call me if you need anything."

* * *

That might be one of the biggest American flags you've seen yet. It' displayed proudly behind the stage, right next to the banner of Fort Campbell's call to fame, the 101st Airborne Division.

Like all sendoff ceremonies there are lots of speeches. They call upon your honor and your valor; the brave sons and daughters of this great nation. The families of your unit and distinguished guests line the bleachers on each side of the air hangar.

The Chaplin will bless your souls.

The Post Commander will charge you with this imperative mission.

You stand tall with the rest of your company, lined up in neat little rows and columns, and listen to them build you up. It's meant to inspire, ignite a warrior spirit, and rally the strength you'll need to endure this deployment. They tell you're doing something great—something less than one percent of all Americans will ever do in their lives. They praise you for doing it _for_ those who can't, the other ninety-nine percent. They call it a noble sacrifice and they quote great leaders of the past and present; generals, presidents, and veteran heroes alike.

Your toes wiggle in your boots and you listen with only one ear. Your mind is somewhere else.

SPC Flanagan and PVT Motta stand beside you. They're about the same age you were when you first deployed. It felt like a great adventure back then. It felt like it really meant something. You remember feeling… significant in a way, like you were about to make this huge impact. Somehow, you were going to make a difference. You can only guess as to what they're thinking about right now. If they're listening to the speaker or daydreaming about all the things they're going to miss.

You can only hope that it'll be worth their trouble, this rendezvous with destiny.

The mass of red, white, and blue looms over you all. Is that why you're doing this? For love of country? If you shift your eyes all the way to the right, you can see your mom and dad in the bleachers. She has one foot on the seat in front of her, elbow on her knee, and chin in her hand. The retired colonel looks terribly bored. Beth is sitting next to her, mirroring her posture exactly. You almost laugh and have to look forward again to keep from doing it.

Your mom has never been one for ceremonies. Growing up you remember her calling them pony shows. She always urged the commanders who worked for her to keep things to a minimum. She used to tell them every word they say at the podium is another second they're taking from their airmen's last day with their families.

And this is exactly that, your last day. After this ceremony, you'll be released for one more night.

This time tomorrow you'll be saying your last goodbyes and be on your way.

* * *

The stars are pretty.

They'll be pretty in Iraq, too.

No matter where you go in the world, the stars will always be pretty. It's a little something to look forward to, one pretty thing in a dreary desert.

"Are the answers really up there?"

Your eyes fall from the sky, finding your mother walking across the grass.

"When you were younger," she takes a looks at the moon, "you would always find your way into the middle of the yard to stare at the sky. I used to watch you from the kitchen window and try to figure out what you were doing. Finally I realized you normally did it the night before a big test at school or a JROTC competition."

"Then you step out onto the back porch and remind me that the quadratic equation isn't written in the stars."

She grins at that, rubbing the back of her neck and studying at the night's sky long enough to confirm, "Well, it's not, honey. Remember, you should always take comfort in—"

"Preparation, not prayers," you finish for her with a small smile, "I know, mom."

She nods once, "Right, and what about your preparation for this deployment? Do _you_ feel ready?"

"I do, but I'm worried about the kids," you sigh, thinking about your soldiers. "This is their first trip and I don't know, they seem so young."

"You weren't even twenty when you first deployed, Brittany. You made it, so now you know enough to make sure they will too."

There's a compliment in there somewhere, so you let your heart swell with her confidence in you. You tell yourself that you're not a child anymore, you don't need her patting your head and putting stickers on your homework, but it's nice to hear that she finds you capable. In a family that's measured by their military merit, her impression of your leadership means something.

"Have you been seeing anyone recently?"

That's not an unexpected inquiry. She has been hinting at it ever since she got here. Scratching your eyebrow, you admit, "No, I'm not dating, kinda focused on my career right now."

"Career?" she tries the word out. "The amount of work you do, for what they're paying you, they should call it charity."

"I think I'm going to keep pretending it's a career," you tell her conversationally. "I mean, I've put a lot of time and effort into it already, so..."

"That's not how I meant it. That was a dig against the institution, not you," she sighs with a sad frown. "I'd never belittle your work like that, Brittany. I know what you're capable of and it takes a certain caliber of woman to wear your boots."

You look at the sky again, replaying the words in your head and filling your heart with that assurance. Those are the kind of words that will keep you strong though your deployment.

"But seeing Quinn with Beth, I'm worried I'll have to wait for Emily to grow up to be a grandmother."

A small part of you deflates. She's going to have to wait on your sister for a lot of things; to go to an Academy graduation, to see gold on her daughter's collar, to watch a younger generation of Pierce take command of her first squadron.

"Where is marriage and kids on the Pierce Pathway to Greatness?" you ask seriously. "Do you have to hit a certain rank before you can do that? Or is like a sub-goal that can be worked in anywhere, as long as it gets done?"

She ignores your comment and says, "I was already married to your father at your age. I'm not sure how far I would have gone without his support."

"I have support, mom. I have Quinn here and I had her back at Jackson. I had support back at Carson—"

She scoffs thoughtlessly, "Of course, your support at Carson. He was certainly _fabulous_, wasn't he?"

"He's actually a really nice guy," you shake your head, turning back to the house. "I'm going inside."

"Brittany, wait, I'm sorry. I didn't come out here to do this."

You stop, taking a breath and hoping she doesn't realize how close you are to crying.

Her words are a little softer, "Not everything I say is an insult, you know."

"Then why does it feel like one?" you turn halfway towards her, eyes in the grass and embarrassed, "You're so… _critical,_ of everything, every little thing, I do."

"Remember, Brittany," she starts off in that tone of voice, her leader voice, and breaks the final straw for you. "It's important to be critical when—"

"I don't want to talk to _Colonel Pierce,_ I want to talk to my _mom_," you cut her off sharply. "I don't want you to ask if I'm prepared this stupid deployment, I want you to ask if I'm scared to go. I don't want you to ask if I've found someone to support my career, I want you to ask if I've fallen in love, mom. I want you…"

You want her to be proud of you.

You can't say that of course. The words catch in your throat and you feel ashamed for depending so much on her opinion. She stays quiet and you keep looking at the stars. Your tears are hot against your cheeks. Stubbornly, you don't brush them away because this is how she makes you feel.

You need her to see it.

"Oh, honey," she whispers, coming closer and wiping your tears away herself, "I did this?"

Without thinking you admit, "I never feel like I'm good enough for you."

She blinks a few times, honestly not understanding your words.

"You've been making jabs at my life ever since I refused to go to that academy like you did, like your dad did, like his dad did," a new wave of tears brims in your eyes. "I know it was a big deal when I didn't go, I've heard you talk to Grandpa about it and Grandma hasn't treated us the same since—"

She hugs you then, and at first you're stiff in her arms, because now you feel like you've given away too much, "Yes, it wasn't the most popular decision in the world for you to enlist, but I'm hard on you because I want to see you do well. I want to see you prove us all wrong. You think I expect the world of you, when all I want is the best for you. I am so sorry, that I've let you believe anything else."

She holds you close and you finally get the courage to hug her back.

The tremor in her voice is just barely noticeable, "I am so sorry."

You squeeze your eyes shut and press your forehead into her shoulder.

"Brittany, you are my daughter, and I am so proud of you. You are strong willed and every bit as stubborn as I am. You're also incredibly compassionate, and you get that empathy from your father," she brushes some of your hair behind your ear. "I'm proud of you for your accomplishments. I'm proud of you for what you've done in the service, and how you live your life outside it. I'm proud of you for the friends you've made and the company you keep, fabulous or not."

A small laugh escapes your tight throat. You're not sure how long you've been waiting for her to say that. You're not sure how many times you've dreamed about it. Everything feels so worth it, the times you've sat in the desert, the obstacles you've overcome to get to the position you are now. Even the supposedly stupid badges on your dress uniform feel more important now, because your mother is proud of them. There's a stirring inside of you, small fibers of your heart are mending, your shoulders feel lighter, the future a little brighter.

"Because I know it means you have a large heart, and I'm proud of that too."

"I love you, mom."

"I love you too, Brittany," she murmurs into your hair, "and I promise, I'll make sure I show it more often."

* * *

Today's the day and everything starts out pretty much the same. You take a shower the same, brush your teeth the same, and put your hair up the same. Your boots feel the same, the stains and worn patches on the leather are the same, but you think this might be their last big trip.

When you're finished getting ready, except your jacket because that seems to have gone missing, you head out of your room and down the hall. Your fingertips run along the wall as you go, saying goodbye in your own way. The next door you pass is the guest room Quinn had claimed since arriving at Fort Campbell. The door is cracked, but the lights dim. Something draws you in.

Something darker than a simple curiosity.

The feeling in the room is heavy and reminds you of the nights you'd find trapped in her dreams, reliving a memory you both wish was only a nightmare. Like those nights, she's in bed, but this time she's dressed in her uniform and not alone. Carefully, you approach your friend and her daughter. She's awake and laying on her side watching the girl sleep next to her. You can see her finger brushing small strokes along the back of Beth's hand.

Leaning close, you whisper, "She's so pretty, Quinn."

Quinn doesn't say anything, her lips purse tight at the corners and her shoulder tenses under your hand.

In a lot of ways, she's always treated her deployments as an escape, because she has so few ties to hold her back. This extended visit with Beth is probably the best and worst thing that's ever happened to her. Having more than a letter and more than a weekend visit to New York—having her daughter here, actually _here with her_, this is the first time Quinn's ever truly felt like she's leaving someone important behind.

With a secondhand heartbreak, you brush her hair back and kiss her temple. You won't mention the way her lip trembles or the tears that fall onto the pillowcase, and neither will she. Promising that you'll see her downstairs, you slip out of the room and try to keep back your own tears.

Today is the day, and maybe things are a little different after all.

* * *

You find your uniform top with your mother at the kitchen table. She's carefully arraigning your skill identification badges on the fabric, with your uniform guide book open nearby and ruler in hand.

"Mom," the question is pointless but you're only asking to hear the answer aloud, "what are you doing?"

"Fixing your uniform," she doesn't look up from the Combat Medical Badge in her hand.

"I could have done that," you say it for the sake of appearances. You had left your skill badges and guide book next to your uniform very much on purpose, because secretly, you knew this would happen if you did.

"Hon, your eggs are ready," your dad scoots two eggs in a basket onto a plate with fried potatoes and it's your favorite breakfast in the world.

"Thanks, dad," you hug him with one hand and take the plate with the other. He kisses the top of your head before you go and it's hard to forget that this is the last time you'll see them until next year.

You take a place at the table, watching your mother pin in your badges with the upmost care. You have no doubt that when she's finished they'll be straighter and more centered than you've even been able to do yourself. You watch without shame, because there's a reminiscing comfort in seeing your mom get your outfit ready for the day.

She might need this as much as you do.

"Is this a new top?" she squints at the badges against the tiny seamstress ruler. "There aren't any holes in the fabric from where you've put these before,"

Between bites of toast and eggs you admit, "That's because I don't usually wear them unless it's like, something formal."

"That's a shame, Brittany," her hands pause for a brief moment, and she hums softly to herself. "Everyone should know how accomplished you are, especially today."

Your eyes fall to your meal. You would be deploying whether you graduated Air Assault school or not, and it's going to suck no matter what your uniform looks like. Everyone in the company knows that, but you didn't want them today for everyone in the company.

You're wearing them for the family of your soldiers, SPC Flanagan and PVT Motta

Civilians don't know what Pathfinder is, or what you have to endure to receive a Combat Medical Badge, but they know those bells and whistles mean you did something special. They'll look around at all the soldiers and realize some have more accolades than others. They'll measure you against the rest. You hope they'll be impressed with your display and that they will see your badges and it'll bring them a small bit of comfort.

Maybe if you look as accomplished as you can, it will make leaving their children in your care a little easier.

She interrupts your thought to ask, "Do you have any word on what you're mission will be assigned once you get over there?"

"We're counting on some convoy security stuff. Real low-key, kind of lame," you mumble offhandedly, shoveling a few more bites into your mouth.

"I was hoping for something like a PTT gig," Quinn walks into the kitchen, the picture of casual composure.

"Seriously?" you send her a dubious look, remembering her letters about her last experience on a Police Transition Team. "You told me you hated trying to teach the Iraqi Police how to do their jobs."

"Well, yeah," she rolls her eyes, "but that's because I'm inpatient and half the time they wouldn't listen to me because I'm a woman. At least it's interesting. I'd much rather do that then sit in convoys for hours on end waiting to catch an IED."

"Let's not tempt the fates, shall we?" you mom murmurs before placing the last of the pins into the fabric fastening the back.

"Did you want breakfast, Quinn?" your dad changes the subject from the counter. "There's enough for you and Beth."

"Yes, please," she smiles. "Beth will be down soon."

"Give me your jacket before you start eating, Quinn," the retired colonel gathers your uniform top, holding it up to study her work. "I want to fix your badges."

Everyone knows there's nothing wrong with Quinn's pins, they're centered and spaced perfectly. Everyone knows that's not the point. So Quinn shrugs out of her uniform top, hands it to your mom, takes a plate of food from your dad, and sits next to you. She gets oddly shy when they do this, like she does when your parents tell her they're expecting her for the holidays.

Beth comes down not long after and your dad is good about keeping the spirits up. He asks about her school and tells some not so flattering stories about your misadventures at that age. Your mom finishes Quinn's uniform and sooner than you'd like it's time to head to out.

"Photo time!" your dad springs down the porch stairs as you're handing over your house key to your mom. He laughs when all the women roll their eyes with a sigh. "Just a quick one."

He takes the shot and you tell him to send you a copy in his first letter. He promises he will. While you're arraigning bags in the back of the jeep with Quinn you overhear Beth ask to see the photo on his camera.

"You know how you can spot a Pierce?" he asks her, a smile in his voice.

"How?"

"Look for the wings on their hearts, for these girls, the sky is the limit."

* * *

Driving onto post is the worst.

This is the last time you'll drive your jeep, the last time you can make polite conversation with the guard checking IDs at the gate, the last time your mom will mention how much nicer Fort Campbell is compared to what she thought it would be.

"What did you expect it to look like?" you ask for the sake of conversation, you'd rather talk about nothing than think about what you're driving towards.

"Oh, you know," she glances out the window, "the Air Force usually has a little more finesse to their facilities. The Army is mostly about function at an affordable rate."

"Yeah, that's true," you admit, "but this place isn't so bad."

"Much better than Stewart," Quinn chimes in.

You pull into the parking lot of your company area on autopilot. You kill the engine and take out the keys. Your mom is usually the first one out of the car, the first to meet the new challenge, the first to want to shake hands and greet company. Today she sits next to you quietly and waits for you to say goodbye.

It seems silly to say goodbye to a jeep, but your hands linger on the steering wheel. Such soft leather, worn in some places more than others; you grip tightens one last time, trying to imprint the feeling in your skin. Finally, you trace the logo in the center and sigh.

"It's a very nice jeep," your dad praises from the back seat while Beth and Quinn slip out.

Your mom touches the 4th Infantry Division medallion hanging from the rearview mirror, "What's her name?"

She knows you well enough to know you've named your vehicle. A reverberating ache swells in your chest, your first reminder that you're about to say goodbye. You're going to miss them so much. With a wayward smile, you sigh, "Valerie."

"We'll take good care of her, Britt," your dad reaches over to squeeze your shoulder and it's only with that small comfort that you're able to hand your keys to your mom. She slips them into her jacket pocket and says, "Now then, I want to see your office."

You let out a lighthearted groan as you get out of the vehicle. She's always doing that, convinced that a person's work space is a signal of their status in an organization. You're lucky that you even have an office to show her this time, with a desk and a computer all to yourself. When you were first starting out you didn't have things like that because you weren't in charge of anything.

But now things are different. You have something to show her and, after last night, she's reassured you that she's going to be proud of you no matter what.

You take your time to shut the door, pressing a hand against the cool metal, "Please, don't let Em drive my jeep."

"We'll try really hard," you dad throws his arm over your shoulder, "but I have a feeling she's going to be a little like you were your senior year."

"That's not comforting at all," you tell him under your breath.

He sends you a knowing smile and winks, "You turned out alright."

Your mom joins you and nods to the company building, "This is it?"

It's just a question, she's not being outwardly critical, but you can't help but worry that she's not impressed, "Yeah, this is it."

"It's obvious Military Police units don't get the same level of funding that the Infantry does," she mentions.

"Story of my life, Mrs. Peirce," Quinn throws over her shoulder as she walks ahead with Beth.

She's always teasing you about how the infantry spoiled you with the best of everything. Right now you're just thankful that there's no moss on the sides of the building.

A group of soldiers from one of your sister units are setting up picnic tables in the lawn and a group of wives are hanging streamers around the trees and the side of the building. They're trying really hard to make this special, turn it into a celebration, and keep it from feeling like a tragedy. You appreciate the effort, sometimes it's nice to pretend everything is alright, even when you know better.

"You've served with this Sylvester woman before," her eyes are still sharp as ever, they don't miss the names of your Commander and First Sergeant, printed neatly on a sign with the building number and your unit name.

"Back at Jackson," you confirm because it wasn't a question.

She makes a soft humming noise and keeps looking around. You try to follow her eyes, see what she sees, and maybe get a hint of what she's thinking.

"The Army really is a small place."

You move forward to get the door; it's not surprising that you mother is the first one through. She walks into the company building with all the dignity of the Battalion Commander, looking around like she's about to bust out a white glove and take a swipe for dust.

"My office is down the hall," you move past your dad to stand next to your mom. She nods and starts off to match your step. You point out everything you think is important, the Commander's and First Sergeant's office doors, the mail room, and you're between the Third and Second Platoon offices, when your mom stops, "Brittany, what's this?"

You stop too. They're studying your NCO of the Quarter picture and it's making you squirm, still too vulnerable from your heart to heart last night, so you try to brush it off, "It's not a big deal. I don't know why they still have that up anyway."

"It looks like a big deal to me," you dad stops at your mom's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"And when did you get another Commendation Medal?" your mom squints at the decorations on your uniform. You can't remember the last time she's seen you in your dress uniform.

"When I left Carson," you mumble. "Seriously, it's not a big deal, the competition was so lame I could have fallen asleep in the middle of it and still would have won."

She gives you an amused look, "Brittany, there's a difference between being a gracious winner and being to humble."

"What's wrong with being humble?"

"When you're humble about victory you're implying that everyone else had a chance at winning," she explains and there's a light in her eye that tells you she's joking, "and when a Pierce is competing, that's simply not true."

You share a smile with her, because she knows your work ethic, she knows you would never walk into that board unprepared. That confidence in you means more than she knows.

"You've never been one to make much of yourself, so let us get excited for you," your dad offers as he passes the photo. "Oh, I bet this your office."

He points to the door with the big red cross on it and when you smile and roll your eyes, you try not to feel weird that your mom did the same thing at exactly the same time.

* * *

The Family Day festivities are similar to the usual FRG events. There's food, a few games set up for children, and a photographer running around for the FRG newsletter. Terri Schuester really went all out again. American flags decorate every available surface, a sound system is playing music, and everyone is trying to ignore the inevitable.

"Who decided it was a good idea to serve spicy food," you take a sip of your water, watching a few soldiers walk by with their plates of chili. "They realize we're about to get on a twelve hour plane ride, right?"

"I don't know, but whoever picked this music needs to be investigated for ties to Al Qaeda," Quinn grumbles next to you. "We've been listening to a Colbie Caillat, _on loop_, for the past two hours. If I have to hear _Lucky_ one more time I'm going to throw that stereo into the street."

You nearly choke on your water and share a grin with your dad, "Yeah, that's a really depressing song to be playing right now."

The Evans family is sitting at a picnic table across the company area and it's really nice to see SPC Lopez with them. She's sitting between Evans and a girl you figure to be his little sister, she looks comfortable there, part of the group. SGT Anderson is standing at the edge of the table, checking in and introducing himself to the parents. That's always a really important part, meeting the family.

"I'm glad you finally gave Evans and Lopez some real leadership," you tell Quinn.

She's sitting next to you at the picnic table, sharing a crossword puzzle with Beth. She gives the team a quick once over before turning back to the word game, "We'll see how it works out."

"What is Karofsky doing now? You never said."

"Stuck him in the armory," she sighs and explains to your dad, "he's not exactly cut out for field work. If he gets his ducks in a row, and doesn't mess it up, this assignment could look great on him."

"But if he messes it up," you shake your head, thinking about all the ways a screw up like that could stunt someone's career. "It's one of those detrimental kind of things."

Working in the armory, being in charge and responsible for every weapon and piece of munitions the company owns, that's a big deal. A position like that will make or break your next evaluation report as an NCO, either you did great, or you've set yourself back on the promotion timeline.

Either way, Quinn knows, "It's all up to him. If I see some improvement, who knows, I might even let him out of his cage latter on in the deployment."

"Well, that seems fair," your dad shrugs.

You laugh, "Very considerate of you, Quinn."

"Hardly," she erases a block to correct Beth's spelling, "I've told him to fall into headquarters platoon from now on."

"Ouch," you cringe, looking around for the man in question, "that's embarrassing."

"Yeah, Sergeant Jarrett wasn't happy with me," she glances at the Headquarters Platoon Sergeant. "Told me I didn't need to be sending my trash to his platoon, but if he's going to be working in the armory, he can't stand in mine."

"What's an armory?" Beth looks at Quinn.

"It's where we keep all the really dangerous stuff we need for deployment," she's torn about how childproof her answers are. She knows Beth is smart, and in that particular age where she knows when adults are deliberately leaving things out because of her age. "Weapons and things we need to protect ourselves."

"First Sergeant Sylvester, the one talking to my mom right now," you point at your mom and the senior NCO, "she keeps a cannon down there, from her pirating days."

Beth's eyes narrow skeptically, "No way."

"You don't believe me?" you act shocked, Quinn acts exasperated, and your dad plays along. "I bet if you ask her she'll tell you that it's true, she used to be a pirate."

The kid looks at Quinn for an answer, who laughs, shaking her head, "There is a cannon down there, Beth, but it's a broken relic and doesn't work anymore."

You lean down to whisper, "That's not what First Sergeant says."

Beth tries really hard to look uninterested, but she leans a little closer to you.

"How do you think she gets _all _these soldiers to do what she says?" you point to the mass of people in camouflage and her eyes follow your finger. "We listen because everyone knows, if you're bad, First Sergeant will shove you in the cannon and fire you off into Canada! Where you'll be forced to squander maple syrup for pennies on the street!"

"I'm not five," Beth rolls her eyes and goes back to her crossword, "I know Canada is like, way far away from here."

You catch Quinn's eye over her head and you're so thankful that she's shared this beautiful girl with you. Now might be a good time to give them some time together, just the two of them, so you start to stand, "I'm gonna go meet Flan and Motta's parents."

"Already?" Your friend looks at her watch to confirm, "you can still put that off for two hours."

"It's going to be stressing me out until I do it, so I want to just get it over with," you stretch when you stand, "besides, where did mom go?"

You look around the grounds. You see First Sergeant talking to CPT Schuester, SPC Lopez walking into the company, SGT Karofsky sitting with a burly man on a tailgate in the parking lot, LT Berry walking towards the coolers with two men, SPC Chang sitting with her civilian husband, but you can't find your mom.

* * *

Talking to the parents is always hard.

You shake the father's hand, you hug the mom. You try to instill every bit of confidence you can. It's a balancing act, looking brave but realistic, confident but still cautious. You slip it in casually that this will be your third deployment and you watch them mull that over. They can see you're experienced, they figure you know how to survive, but it's not just you they need to be assured of.

"Rory is one of the best soldiers I've ever had," you tell his folks, ignoring the look that comes over his face when you call him by his first name. "The boys are lucky to have him as their medic. He's gonna be great, I can tell."

His mom clutches his arm and runs her hand up and down his back, trying really hard to hold back the tears. "Rory, be a sport and get your mom a bottle of water from the coolers."

He's quick to do as she asks, it'll give him a second to catch his breath.

As soon as he's out of earshot they say the magic words.

"Take good care of him."

His mom's voice trembles, "Bring him back to us."

The first time a mom said that to you, the first time they tasked you with the life of their child, you felt the sky fall around you. Each syllable is another shackle of duty, expectation, and hope. You can feel the weight of it. You could very well be Atlas—and the world on your shoulders belongs to one mother—entrusting you with her son.

This isn't the time for promises, or false hopes, all you can offer is a simple, "I'll do everything I can."

What else can you say?

* * *

You can't find your mother anywhere on the company grounds so you decide to see if she's in the building. As soon as you're inside it doesn't take long to spot her flight jacket down the hallway. You just don't know what she's doing with SPC Lopez.

_Lopez_ of all people. It makes you nervous to see them together, because that soldier knows more she should about way too many topics, none of which needs to be shared with your mother. Walking quickly, you make your way down the hall. Neither of them notice you, and you're quiet enough to overhear their conversation.

Your mom sounds skeptical, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Trust me, ma'am, this is how we do it in Lima Heights."

"Is that a gang?"

"A subdivision," SPC Lopez mumbles, her attention entirely focused on the bobby pin she has sticking into the lock of a display case. Just as you're walking up to them she turns the lock with a successful, "Hells yeah, you owe me twenty."

Your mom is pleasantly surprised and pushes open the case door with a small laugh, "Soldier of the Quarter and small time crook, the Army never ceases to amaze me."

Now is as good a time as any to let them know you're here, "What are you two doing?"

SPC Lopez flinches, looking as scared as she should be. Her eyes are skating back and forth from you to your mother and her mouth opens for some sort of explanation but nothing comes out.

Your mom doesn't look nearly as worried and only offers you a passing glance, "Oh, Britt, what does it look like?"

She pulls your picture off the NCO of the Quarter spot and turns to her accomplice, "Did you want yours as well, Miss Lopez?"

SPC Lopez answers meekly, "No, ma'am, I'm fine."

"You're sure? Don't you think your parents would want such a nice picture of you?" your mom presses, hesitating to close the display case.

The soldier glances back at you for a second, "I'm sure."

"Okay, that's settled," you reach forward and press the case closed before anyone else can stumble onto the scene of this crime. You're flabbergasted at the ridiculousness of your mother and flattered that she would try to steal your photo. You shake your head to keep the smile off your face, "I can't believe you two."

Lopez thinks you're actually upset, "Sergeant, I was only—"

"Breaking into company property?" you suggest casually, watching her squirm as she tries to come up with an explanation.

"Britter Bug," your mom has caught onto your game and isn't going to let you off easy, "this is prime refrigerator material."

She holds up the photo as evidence and your ears burn. Lopez coughs into her fist to cover a laugh. When your attention slides over to her, she freezes immediately under your delightfully unreadable stare—the one you know gets under her skin.

"Yeah," you look back to your mom and agree dryly, "twenty bucks worth."

"It was really nice to meet you, Mrs. Pierce," Lopez gives this little wave and scampers off down the hall.

"You didn't have to scare her away," she watches Lopez go. "She seems like a good girl, too bad her family doesn't realize it."

"You don't know anything about her family," you say quietly, ignoring how your heart flutters at her obvious approval of the soldier.

That means something to you because you've never… you've never had anyone to bring home to the parents. Sure, you've dated. Some were serious, some were casual, and some were convenient. None of them were worth introducing to your parents.

It happens before you can catch yourself. There's a tickle in the back of your mind, a reoccurring daydream. It's a nice place, this fantasy of yours, another life where you aren't restricted by regulation. You feel the dreams bubble, they meld together into the most pleasant pictures of what _could_ be.

Imagine if you had reached out—just before she got too far away—and grabbing her wrists.

She would stiffen at first, like she always does when you touch her, but this time it would be uncertainty filling her dark eyes and not the her seemingly uncontrollable affection. You would run your thumb over the skin of her wrist to calm her down, let her know that this is alright. She would bite her lip and glance at your mother, nervously watching the curious expression on the woman's face.

She might even look around to see if anyone were watching, because she knows you've always been so worried about the opinions of everyone else. In the moment, this fantasy moment, you would only care about one person's opinion when you coax this young woman closer and say, _"Mom, this is Santana, she's really special to me."_

Sadly, that's where the daydream comes to an end. Even your overactive imagination can't fathom a reaction from your mother that could fit into a fairytale ending.

You could never introduce Specialist Lopez to your parents.

You could never be anything to _Specialist_ Lopez.

You know all of this. You understand the logic and the boundaries, and when the clouds fade, you're left with a lingering sensation of loss and longing. A part of you mourns what can never be. So you watch her go, ducking through the door at the end of the hall, and you wish she'd take all the what ifs with her.

"No, I suppose I don't," your mom looks over the photo in her hands, oblivious. Then she slips her arm around your waist and starts leading you to the door. "I do know plenty about ours, though."

"And?" you inquire tentatively.

Ever since last night, when she told you everything you've ever wanted to hear, you've been walking on pins and needles waiting for her to take it back.

"Pierce is a distinguished name in some circles. We've had Academy graduate after Academy graduate," she squints against the sun, "but you are something of a first, Brittany. If everyone takes the same path, who is more commendable, the ones that follow without question, or the one that makes her own way?"

"You're giving my teenage rebellion too much credit," you murmur, with an embarrassed flush.

"I don't think I've ever given it enough, and I would never chalk your decision up to teenage rebellion. I know you have your reasons for taking this path."

You stay quiet.

It's coming, the end. It sits heavy in your chest and makes your breath short. When you get back to your picnic table, your dad is already saying goodbye to Quinn and Beth. Your mom steps away from you long enough to hug them both and wish them well. You watch her do it from a few feet away. You see the strength in her eyes, the confident smile she bears when she assures them that they'll see each other soon.

She means so much to you.

If you could ever… if you could ever find a way to be as strong as she is… that's when you know you've made it. They frame you, one on either side. Your mom's arm around your waist and your dad's around your shoulder.

Together you walk towards the parking lot.

All day you've watched soldiers head out into this forsaken place. They go with their family and return alone, heartbroken, and wearing tight grimaces. They try to be tough, they try to keep the hurt inside, and they try to believe all the promises.

You have to do the same.

When you reach your jeep, your dad wraps you up in his arms, "We'll be waiting for your first phone call. What do you think, maybe three weeks?"

"Yeah," you breathe against his shoulder. He's the one that always picks up. He's never missed one of your phone calls. He's always there on the other end of the phone. "Three weeks, I should have an address for you by then."

"We'll be waiting," your mom hugs you next. She hugs you tighter than she has in a very long time. "You're going to make us proud, Brittany."

"I'll try," your voice breaks a little and she hushes you.

She kisses your cheek and holds you at arm's length, getting one last look at you, "It's not that hard, just keep doing what you're doing."

You nod dumbly, because when you see her crying, your own tears spill over. How is it possible to miss her so much already, and you haven't even left yet?

"I love you."

Her voice is strong and steady, like you've always known her to be.

Like you've always wanted to be.

"I love you too, honey," your dad's eyes are earnest and loving, like you've always known them to be.

Like you've always wanted to be.

"I love you guys so much."

There's one last kiss on the cheek, a reminder to call Emily, and they climb into your jeep. Your mom is driving and you find that you don't mind at all. You stay in that spot, and watch them drive away until the tears dry on your face, until your heart stops racing and you're ready to face your next big adventure.

* * *

You notice Shelby before Quinn or Beth do. They're much too busy playing a word game in Quinn's notebook.

"Antonym, three syllables."

"Um," Beth frowns at the page, her little finger tapping out syllables that you know she's saying in her head. Finally, she answers with, "Dreadful."

The woman stands between two cars in the parking lot, hovering on the other side of the street, watching her daughter and your best friend. It chills you, a final reminder that you're sitting on borrowed time. Within the hour, all these families will be gone. They'll leave behind an emptiness that each solider will pack away in their rucksack, a load to bear until the next year.

Quinn bites the end of her pen, a smile pulling at her lips, "Is that three syllables?"

Beth looks Quinn dead in the eye and claps it out, "Dah-red-full."

"Use it in a sentence," Quinn waves her on, "let me hear how you say it."

She loses a bit of her gumption then, looking at the sky for inspiration, "The accident was _dahredful."_

After a second's pause before they fall into a fit of giggles, leaning into each other, and forgetting that this won't last forever. It isn't long at all before Quinn notices the change your mood. You can't look away from Shelby quickly enough for her to miss it. You see her shoulders slouch, eyes dimming, and her spirit fades away.

And even so, she tries so hard to smile, "Beth, your mom's here."

This is the end for them and they both rise to meet it.

Quinn looks back over her shoulder and you don't need her to say anything. You stand from the picnic table and follow along, a couple yards behind. When Beth grabs Quinn's hand, and Quinn stares down at her with such a surprise, you almost turn around and go back. Quinn looks like she's never wanted anything more than that one little hand reaching for hers.

You're not sure you're going to be much support here, you might start crying too.

The walk is only across the street and into the parking lot. Maybe ten steps. Such a short walk to heartbreak, but Quinn's footsteps are certain, her shoulders square, and when Beth let's go of her hand to hug another woman, she's ready.

Shelby holds the girl close, beaming with a mother's love, "I've missed you."

Because it's honest and true, Beth replies, "Me too, mom."

"Did your Aunt Quinn show you all around Kentucky?"

Beth scrunches her nose, "I like New York better, but it was fun."

"I'm glad," Shelby looks to Quinn with kind eyes that you find unexpectedly compassionate. "Thank you, for letting her visit. It meant a lot to both of us."

"You're not the only ones," she takes off her patrol cap to run her hand through her hair, "I hope your trip went smoothly."

"Much better than expected," her attention slips over to you and a interested expression comes into her eyes. "I recognize you, from the photos Quinn's sent us."

Awkward and about a half foot outside of the bubble of conversation, you blush, "I'm sorry."

She chuckles, "I hope that's not your name."

Quinn seems thankful for the diversion, maybe even hoping to prolong the inevitable, "This is my best friend, Brittany Peirce."

"Are you deploying too?" Shelby's eyes take in the festivities on the other side of the street, the durable uniforms and the fragile moment of cheer.

"I am."

"I don't know how you do it," she laughs a little, playing with Beth's ponytail absently.

Quinn's the one that answers, quiet and solemn, "Someone has to."

"But why _you?_ Do you really have to go again?"

Everyone's eyes fall to Beth.

"You've gone like, five times," she moves away from Shelby. Her face stern, she steps in front of Quinn in such a way you would think she was the Sergeant Major of the Army. "No one in my entire school knows someone that's gone that many times."

Without thought, her knees hit the pavement and Quinn kneels in front of the young girl, "Beth, we talked about this, remember? The guys over there, my soldiers, they need me."

She looks away, her voice breaking when she asks, "But why can't they find someone else?"

By the look on her face, Quinn might have never considered that question before in her life. Or maybe, she's never had the most important person in her entire life ask that question.

"I don't—" Beth brushes away the tears shining on her cheeks, "I don't like saying goodbye to you."

You move around them as discreetly as you can, catching Shelby's eye. She's gracious enough to follow you a few feet away.

"Quinn was going to give this to you," you hand over a small laminated item. "It's something the Family Readiness Group put together, inside is all the information on how to contact the unit when we're gone. They even have an electronic newsletter or something."

She flips through the pages, more for something to fiddle with then for any sort of information.

You glance back to your friend, "In case something happens to either of you, Quinn would want to know if there was anything she could do to help. She would want to be there."

"Thank you," Shelby tucks the booklet into her purse. "You know, I always subscribe to those newsletters. I find her unit's Facebook pages and try to keep up with what's going on with all of this," her hand waves around gesturing to the company, the deployment, the military, everything.

She makes a disheartened little sigh, like the idea of understanding all of this is impossible. You have to admit, she's doing very well for someone in her position.

"I guess I like keeping an eye on her," Shelby frowns, "but every year, I read about how _that particular_ unit has made it home, but Quinn isn't with them. Not one week later,_ without fail,_ Beth and l will get a letter in the mail from Quinn about how she's still in the desert, how some _other_ unit needed her to extend her deployment to do this or that. We find out that she's still in the desert and still in danger."

This is a battle you've been fighting for a while, Quinn's reluctance to step foot in the country she's fighting for. She always finds a way to stay as long as she can, applying for extensions or switching units. Somehow she can easily stay in that world for twelve to eighteen months at a time and as soon as she gets back, she's looking for the next flight across the ocean. She only has to be home for ninety days before after all.

"I think this visit with Beth is the best thing for that," a small truth that you hope isn't giving away too much information. "She's figuring out that this isn't just messing her up."

"She said you were her best friend," Shelby starts and you know what's coming next. It feels like a changing wind before the rain falls, a chill that makes your skin crawl. "Is there any way you can make sure she comes home with the rest of you this time?"

You hate promises like this, carrying the hope of a family on your shoulders. Despite that, you've seen what these past few weeks with Beth have done for Quinn, so it's easier to say, "I think I can do that."

Beth is crying onto Quinn's shoulder. Her arms are around Quinn's neck and she doesn't look like she's letting go anytime soon, but Quinn waves Shelby over. They talk quietly. Shelby hugs them both, rubbing Quinn's back a few times and kissing the top of her head, "We love you, Quinn. Be safe, alright?"

"I will."

With that, Shelby gathers Beth up in her arms, whispering a gentle, "We're going to be alright, it's going to be alright."

She gives you a small smile as she passes, "It was nice to meet you."

You return the sentiment and walk over to your friend, who's watching Beth being carried away. She's never looked so small before, still on her knees next to a pothole and some gravel, lost and hopelessly destroyed. You sit next to her, take her hand, and wish you could take the pain away.

You don't ask why her Airborne Wings are missing from her uniform.

Within moments she's rebuilding her walls, putting the mask back on. She takes a deep breath, resettling the weight on her shoulders. She can't bend right now. She has to be present to her responsibilities, soldiers to lead and a platoon going to war.

Quinn will not compromise that, even if her entire world has crumbled to the ground.

She stands and helps pull you to your feet, "Thank you, for everything."

You keep her hand in a firm hold and search of her eyes, "We're in this together, Quinn."

When she meets yours, her eyes are still glossy from tears, but there's a determined fire in them that's resolutely her own, "Together."

* * *

The sun is setting. Families are gone and the parking lot is empty.

"_Fall in!"_

It's game time.

The company organizes a formation in front of First Sergeant. The air is tense. Soldiers are stone faced and quiet, standing at attention with more discipline than usual. You're not surprised. When hearts are bleeding and everything seems too big, when you realize that this is really happening, you're about to go to war, taking orders comes naturally. It's almost a relief that someone else is making the decisions. There's a comfort in falling in line and doing as you're told.

"This is it, Titans! This is what we've trained for," First Sergeant Sylvester steps away from her spot by the company's green and gold flag. "This is what we've spent _months_ preparing for."

She groans that last part and there's a grumble of agreement from her soldiers.

"So how about we get on with it?"

The entire company sounds off with an uproar, _"Hooah!"_

The force behind it is inspiring.

You are ready.


	19. FM 7 Dash 22

FM 7-22: Heat Acclimatization.

* * *

It's the strangest thing, bringing a rifle onto a commercial plane. You make it to the top of the stairs and pass through the rounded door, eyeing the stewardess as you pass because everything you've ever heard is telling you guns and knives don't belong on planes, but she doesn't say anything. She doesn't even look at the rifle in your hands or the handgun holstered on your leg.

She only smiles and with exceptionally pleasant voice, gently says, "Remember, when storing your weapon, barrels face the windows."

Okay, so she's obviously done this before. It doesn't mean it's any less weird for you. Or daunting, because you're on the plane now, and you're one step closer to whatever is waiting for you on the other side. You follow along with everyone else down the aisle. Sergeants and stewardesses are directing traffic, making sure everyone gets their gear in the overhead compartments and finds a seat. While you keep your handgun in your holster, rifles are laid on the floor—barrels facing the windows.

When it's there, lying next to your feet with the rest, you feel better. You did that right, this one thing. Tomorrow you'll realize that it's such a small and insignificant detail but right now it feels like the start of something, because if you can do this right, and maybe if you can keep doing all the little things right, everything will work out.

Everything will be fine.

And you'll be on the plane home.

You shake it from your thoughts and look around. This plane in huge, a commercial Boeing something-forty-something and easily fits everyone in the company. The seats are still small and you're stuck between SPC Evans and SGT Anderson, which is fine, you're sure the alternatives could smell a lot worse.

"Third Platoon, listen up," SFC Fabray stands at the font of the seating section, trying to keep as out of the attendant's way as possible. "I said Third Platoon, Beckman. Don't look at me, look at your knees. Keep them there until I say otherwise."

There's a weak, "Yes, Sergeant."

Evans catches your eye and you share a silent laugh, anything to pick up the mood.

When your Platoon Sergeant is convinced that Beckman's eyes are properly diverted she continues, "Alright, we're looking at a pretty long flight here. They'll be playing movies on the overhead screens, I'm sure. Keep the noise to a minimum so your battle buddies can sleep if they want. I need my Squad Leaders to find your people and do a second weapons count, bring your numbers to me."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Beckman, you can look up now."

As soon as she walks towards the back of the plane, your favorite medic is taking the vacant spot in front of everyone. She smiles with a little wave, playfully introducing herself like you've never seen her before, "Hi, my name is Staff Sergeant Pierce and I'm your senior medic."

A few of the Headquarters guys deepen their voices and holler, "_We got you_."

She gives them a little chin lift, fist pumps twice, and finishes their platoon slogan, _"'Cause we're HQ—Atlas."_

Then she strikes this pose, pretending she's the Greek Titan and namesake of Headquarters Platoon. Her soldiers crack up and she's so undeniably charming that even the MPs are smiling along. You know what she's doing, trying to break the tension and pull everyone from dwelling on what you're leaving behind. When she drops her arms from holding the imaginary globe everyone settles down and listens.

She naturally takes advantage and jumps right into her business, "I need to give you a brief on medicinal sleep-aids and those killer blood clots, so please pay attention."

SFC Fabray can control a room because no one would dare speak while she's speaking, SSG Pierce can control a room because no one is going to be the jackass that interrupts her.

She warns everyone to be careful with their doses if they're taking medication to put them to sleep over the plane ride. She highly advises everyone to walk around once or twice and urges everyone to keep an eye on each other.

"I'm serious about those drugs, guys. Don't be a statistic," she starts down the aisle, pointing a warning finger at the soldiers she passes. When she passes your row she catches your eyes and—it might be a trick of the light or a meaningless twitch—you can swear she winks. "Say no to Nyquil."

The boys on either side of you laugh at her joke and you sink in your seat, thankful that the smile on your face blends into the appropriate reaction.

* * *

Six hours into the trip you're trying really hard to slip pass SGT Anderson without waking him. The entire plane is quiet, besides the odd ruffle of movement and a few scattered snores. You couldn't hear them while you were listening to your iPod but now you're really hoping you don't have to stay in a tent with the chainsaw a few rows ahead of you. Spilling into the aisle, you wobble for a few steps. Your legs feel like jelly from sitting for so long, and you're thankful no one is awake to see you almost trip.

The flight attendant smiles and asks if you need anything while you wait for the stall to be free. Quietly, you tell him you're fine, because you are. You're just fine. When you're done with the tiny room and the scary extreme suction toilet, he gives you a pack of peanuts and sends you off with a little pat on your shoulder. His understated sympathy is making it really hard to keep feeling fine.

"Pst!"

You turn towards the middle section of seats and you know who it is before you see those blue eyes looking up at you. On your way to the bathroom you had noticed her there, and even though you hadn't looked her way as you passed, you had felt her there. You always know where she is, it's an awareness that you can't explain, or would ever wish away.

The sergeants have commandeered the entire back row of this section and while the SFC Fabray is sprawled along two seats and some of SSG Pierce's, the medic is sitting upright, book resting in her lap. She's pointing to a water bottle that's rolled just out of her reach with a question in her smile. You pick up the bottle and hand it to her, not needing her to say it out loud.

Her smiles grows wider, her expression soft and thankful. You shrug because it's not that big a deal and you're about to keep walking when you see her frown. She's frowning because she can't open the bottle with one hand and the way your Platoon Sergeant is slumped on top of her other arm isn't helping.

When your hand reaches out for the bottle, it feels right. So you coax it from her hand and twist off the cap. It feels right, to help her, when she asks and when she doesn't—especially when she doesn't. You see her eyes focus slightly sharper, the corners of her mouth turn over, that tiny line appears between her eyebrows and you understand. She's not thinking about the boundaries that have been blurred since the fishing trip, this woman is making a face that clearly says, _I had this under control, thank you very much._

You smile, because you know she could have done it herself, but it feels right to help her.

* * *

When the plane loses that last bit of altitude and the tires squeal on the tarmac, your stomach bottoms out and you might be shaking. This is it, you've landed in Kuwait and you're one step closer to Iraq. The Platoon Sergeants are on their feet sooner than the seatbelt lights shut off, they're giving instructions and warning people about this or that.

A very pretty voice comes through the overhead, _"Thank you for flying with us today, on behalf of our entire crew I'd like to thank you all for your bravery and sacrifice. It has been a true pleasure serving such brave men and women. We wish you luck and a safe return home."_

You focus on gathering your things and bury the uncertainty swelling inside you. Your pack is slung onto your shoulders, pistol on your thigh, and your rifle is solid in your hands.

"Two M4s," SGT Anderson looks at you and Evans. You hold up your rifles. "Two M9s."

You touch your handgun and he gets eyes on both.

"Then I believe we have everything," he nods approvingly and lets you both into the aisle so you can leave the plane first. You guess it's because he wants to keep an eye on you. "There's going to be some busses lined up out there, just follow the rest of the platoon, okay?"

"Got it."

You feel it before you even make it to the door.

The air is changing with every step; thinner, drier, and even at two in the morning, hot as hell.

Oddly fitting.

Stepping to the door, you grip the handrails tightly. Your legs are more jittery then you'd like to admit and the last thing you need is to go tumbling down this flight of stairs. But it's hard to breathe and you cough on the biting hot wind, feeling the sand scrape across your face. You choke down another cough and watch Evans in front of you, one foot in front of the other. You hit the tarmac; NCOs are yelling directions across the noise of the plane and the force of the wind. They point towards the line of busses, one for each platoon. You follow the line in front of you because that's all you can do.

SSG Pierce is standing at the door of the bus counting soldiers as they board. When she sees you coming down the line, her expression changes, there's a smile there, a memory of that time you spent at the lake and it's enough to pull you from the verge of complete freak out. She squeezes your shoulder as you pass, sounding off with a motivated, "Sixteen!"

You're compelled to join in on her enthusiasm, "Yes, Drill Sergeant!"

You hear her laugh while you climb the bus stairs, "I'm not there yet, Lopez."

It's a simple enough game, pretend everything is okay, laugh about little things. You slump into a seat next to Evans and settle your pack on your lap. SGT Anderson sits across the aisle from you and it isn't long before LT Berry is climbing on board with the Squad Leaders. SFC Fabray is right behind them with SSG Pierce.

"Alright, count off," the Platoon Sergeant's voice cuts through the chatter and everyone shuts up quickly. "From the back, let's go!"

You think it's really awesome how SSG Pierce has been adopted into you platoon's leadership. At first you thought it was because she's so close to SFC Fabray, but now you get that she's a real part of this platoon. The other medics have started to fall into their assigned platoons too and you're glad that she'll have a reason be around more often. You could totally get used to that. It's something to look forward to and that means the world right now.

When the count is finished, LT Berry and SFC Fabray both record it in their own green notebooks.

"I'm going to give the Commander our numbers and let him know we're ready," LT Berry slips off the bus again.

SFC Fabray stands at the front of the bus and throws out a warning look, "Listen up, Third. Put your war faces on because it's gonna be a long trip and we need to keep our heads on our shoulders. _Do not_ lose your weapon. Do you understand me?"

"Hooah."

"You say that now," she leans against the seat and crosses her arms, "but someone is going to forget their rifle in the shitter and it had better not be anyone from this platoon. I assure you, First Sergeant is chomping at the bit for someone to mess this up."

The warning is clear enough.

LT Berry jumps on and the bus starts to move. You're told to keep the lights off and don't open the curtains covering the windows. Evans does anyway, just a little, enough for the two of you to peek out. The rest of the airfield isn't that interesting but then you get onto the highway and you start seeing weird looking cars, hatchbacks and top heavy vans. The highway signs lit above the road are written in Arabic and…

This feels like a daydream.

Every now and then you'll pass a city, a real honest city, with skyscrapers and colorful lights. You notice that the buildings are different then in America and you feel ridiculous for being surprised. You have a pretty good idea that Florida doesn't look anything like Idaho and that's just fine.

When you see the first mosque all the noise in your head fades away. The dome centerpiece shines, illuminated in a haze of orange spotlights, surrounded by tall pillars.

"That's one of their churches, right?" Evans whispers to you.

"Yeah."

You get the idea that it's the pride of the city, arched windows and high walls, all decorated with the kind of detailed architecture they write books about. It feels significant. You don't know—you want to keep staring but at the same time you feel like you're not allowed to look. You don't really understand how you feel.

You're tired and anxious so when the highway curves and it slips out of view, you let your thoughts go with it.

* * *

It's hot in Kuwait.

At a random pit stop for soldiers on the bus trip to war, you've been staring out into the place where the sunset meets the desert, brooding over if this is supposed to be a monumental moment in your life. Will you always remember this? The powder-like sand beneath your boots and the bitter smell to the air? Will you remember how the even the clouds are thinner here, faint wisps, like they could evaporate in the very idea of a strong wind?

You think those clouds just might be hoping for it.

"It's kinda pretty, right?"

SSG Pierce appears at your shoulder and you're trying to keep from putting too much faith in this pattern.

"Yeah," you mumble, looking around to see if anyone is watching you watch the sunset with the medic. They aren't. The soldiers of your unit are either in line for a porta-john, smoking a few yards off, or staring into space and having their own life epiphany.

She appraises the sunset with a tired sigh, "We're totally not Kansas anymore."

"Is it weird to be back?" you ask quietly, ever curious about her.

Her eyes sparkle in the sunlight, her skin washed in a warm red glow. When she smiles, one side of her mouth rises higher than the other, like she has a secret on her mind. She nods softly, hands on her hips, just shy of the nine millimeter holstered on her belt, and yes, you will remember this moment for the rest of your life.

"Yeah, I sort of feel like…" she toes the sand beneath her boot and licks her lips, "like a part of me never left, you know?"

You don't. Parts of her soul are threadbare and she's left scraps of herself in the most horrible corners of the earth. You don't have that, the shadow behind your eyes or dents in your armor. You're not as strong as she is.

Her nose scrunches as she thinks, "I'm pretty sure I like Afghanistan better. It's colder, and even snows sometimes. When I was with the 4th ID boys, we were up in the mountains. It was actually really beautiful. Not so much city," her voice gets soft, "I hate the city."

You feel too naïve and too far behind to ever keep up with her. You're scared, and worried. You actually miss your family. You wish you had tried to call your mom one last time.

More than anything you just want to get to Iraq so that you can finally know what the next twelve months your life is going to boil down to.

You're so tired of taking about _when we get to Iraq_, you just want to be there already.

"But we're gonna be alright," she shrugs like it's no big thing, and you think it's good of her to pretend. "And this is our last transfer so hopefully we'll be there soon."

You did not know the plane ride from hell would be followed up with a sequel bus ride experience. You have spent an entire day on these busses. Get on a bus, get to a check point, get off that bus, get on another bus. Some have air conditioning, some don't. Some don't smell like piss, most do. Sometimes you get a seat, and sometimes you have to stand in the aisle and try to stay awake and on your feet. You didn't realize how tiring travel can be. Maybe it's the heat, or how you're not sure how long it's been since you left Fort Campbell. The sun is going down so that gives you an idea.

First Sergeant calls everyone to get back on the busses so you follow SSG Pierce into line with everyone else. If this really is the last leg of the trip, well that sounds fucking great. The company started off with four buses, a breakdown and budget cut later, you're down to two. You've been packed in like sardines and you're so sick of it.

When you board it's obvious that with the piles of equipment loaded into the last five rows of seats, and the number of people in front of you, chances are you won't get a seat this time. That's fine, you're a big girl, you can stand. So you follow SSG Pierce down the small space between the rows of seats and with each step you're slowly starting to piece together what's about to happen.

The man in front of her takes the last seat so she keeps walking, and you follow. She leads you between the rows and rows of equipment filled seats, down the entire walkway, until she gets to the very back wall of the bus. Then she turns around, grabs the overhead bars, and leans into the wall behind her. She looks causal and carefree, travel worn smile still on her face, but her eyes are careful.

You take your place, a foot in front of her, and turn to face the front of the bus.

"Squeeze in, boys," an NCO calls from the front. "There's plenty more coming."

When you take a half step back, to match the guy in front of you, the heel of your boot touches her toe. You grip the headrests on either side of you and pray. This is an entirely new take on the whole bus ride from hell scenario.

You feel her there, behind you, like the hazy simmer around hot coals and the radiating static of an overpowered light bulb. You just might be the fuse crackling and brittle, about to break under the strain. The bus lurches forward and despite how try to counterbalance your weight, you fall back against her.

Lightly, before she's able to pull away, your ear brushes along the side of her face and you're close enough to hear the smallest noise of surprise when you first touch. You struggle, against the force of momentum—against the pounding in your heart, against the shaky breath in your throat—to stand upright and put space between you.

She must realize your conviction, in a thin voice she says, "You're fine, Lopez. You're fine."

Her reassurance doesn't exactly match up to how tense her body feels against your back and the white knuckle grip she has on the overhead bars, but you keep your mouth shut. When the bus finally gets onto the road you're glad that you can stand a little straighter. You only wish that the guy in front of you would take a step forward. You glare at the back of his head like this is his fault.

Now you're only touching in a few torturous places; her shin pressing into your calf—her chest brushing against your shoulder blades as the bus sways. The vehicle hits a bump, jolting all the people standing, and you try very hard to keep from fainting at how your ass fits all too well into the cradle of her hips.

You feel her take a breath, her ribs bow into the backs of your own and when she exhales the air cools the base of your neck.

Then she asks, "How are you doing?"

There's a seemingly relaxed quality to her voice that's so very awkward.

"Oh, you know," you turn your head to the side and mumble, "living the dream."

She makes this little amused sound that floats around between your ears. Then you worry because you don't know if she's taken your sarcasm to mean this deployment, or this very moment. You're not even sure which you meant. You're not even sure if you were being sarcastic.

"It hasn't hit you yet," she sighs softly, and you hear the smile there. "Don't worry, it will."

She's talking about the deployment, and she's right. You're not sure if it's how tired you are or the serious amount of denial crammed into your skull but you still cannot believe this is real. Your mind is sort of chanting, _this is all another training exercise_ on repeat and you keep thinking about your barracks room back on Campbell like you're going to be sleeping there tonight.

The trouble is you have no idea where you'll be sleeping tonight. You don't know anything. This is the last transfer in the trip but where are you actually going? What are you going to do when you get there? Why are you staying in Kuwait for a week, why can't you just get to Iraq already?

She slumps a little against the wall, shifting one foot to the inside of yours and the other against the base of a chair. Slouching as she is, she's still a little taller than you, totally big spoon material here and it surprises you how instantaneous your imagination is… and how willing you would be to let her take that role. You're normally so… guarded when it comes to relationships. You never say those three magic words first and you're certainly not the sentimental type but… she's something else.

You want to tell her nice things, make her smile and hope for a blush. You want to stand on your toes and try for a kiss. You listen to music and every song is about her and somehow none of them can quite do her justice. She's more than rhyming words and a witty turn of phrase. This woman is indescribable and you… had a really nice time on the fishing trip.

Somehow you know, that lake and everything that happened there, might as well be in another world.

* * *

She's asleep, really, knocked out.

She's been falling in and out of a doze for the past hour. Her chin has been accidentally dropping onto your shoulder, seconds later she'll jerk awake and try to shrink away from you as much as she can—which isn't at all. Her shirking makes her shift and the shifting makes you painfully aware of the places you're touching.

Her favored thigh is pressing against the backside of yours and her body is slumped forward into your upper back. Her cheek is resting on your shoulder and she's doing that adorable mouth breathing thing again, each puff of air softly washing over your neck. It tingles, a cool chill in the foggy musk of man sweat and body odor that's filling the overcrowded bus. You catch a hint of floral from her shampoo a trace of feminine antiperspirants and you're in heaven.

The bus hits a bump and you try so hard to keep from jostling her, because she's sleeping and she's sleeping _on_ you and this is... this is the closest thing you'll ever get to sleeping _with_ her. So you do your best to keep her still and comfortable as the bus rocks back and forth. You try to keep from shaking at the curve of her breasts along your shoulders and the subtle power of her firm thighs against yours.

In the journey, her hands have fallen from the overhead rails and are now loosely grabbing the chairs next to you. You've been studying those hands since she fell asleep. The faded green ceiling lights give all the little tendons and veins the smallest shadows. You find a scar on her left thumb that you've never noticed before, a freckle on her right wrist. It gives you a semblance of familiarity. In this small way you know her, by seeing the details everyone else will miss.

The bus rocks and you weren't ready for it. The medic stirs, naturally looking for stability; one hand slips from the seat and takes a nearly forgetful grip on the front of your uniform top.

You choke down the noise bubbling in our throat.

She leans even harder into you and you have to adjust your feet to comfortably hold her weight, but you would hold her until your knees gave out. You try to keep from guessing about her dreams, picturing yourself wrapped up in her arms in a very different situation.

That night spent in Nashville, at the hotel, you remember the way she woke up curled into the bundle of blankets, how her hand touched your face, and when you rolled away she searched for you in her sleep. It thrills you to think she enjoys cuddling, having someone to hold at night.

That someone can be you.

You would do anything to be that person.

There's another bump, the blessing of a pothole, and her other arm slips around your waist. She's hugging you from behind. You try not to move, hoping your own shallow breath doesn't betray you. It's a wonder she can't hear your heart, your pulse is deafening in your ears. She mumbles something into your collar, her words melding together in the fog of sleep. Her fingers curl around the material of your top.

You are burning. The air in this bus is too hot, thick and muggy, sweat beads around your hairline. She's so warm. Your skin is prickling, buzzing, overwhelmed. There are butterflies the size of fighter jets in your stomach and they have nothing to do with being on your way to war.

You pray the man in front of you doesn't turn around, because you're not sure how well this would go over. You're not sure how she will react if she woke up right now. She won't like it. In a sad part of your heart you know she wouldn't want to be hugging you like this, not on a bus full of soldiers.

Maybe not ever.

With such a heavy heart, you cough, clearing your throat with the slightest twitch in your shoulder. She grumbles, pressing her forehead into your shoulder. You take two steady breaths, preparing yourself, steadying your nerve and telling yourself that this has to be done.

Then you step on her toe.

"Jeez!"

She cranks her foot away so quickly that knee drives forward into the back of your leg and it is a worthy pain. Her hands, arms, tightened at first, surprised, confused—until she realized what who she was squeezing and her arms are gone in a heartbeat.

When you hear a dull thud you turn, concern getting the better of your common sense. SSG Pierce has one hand on the back of her head, the most likely cause of the noise, and the other covering her face. Even in the green light you can see the force of her blush creeping along her neck and past her fingertips. You think you can even feel the heat.

It's not what she wants to hear, with her lips pursed so thinly, shoulders pulled in protectively, but you have to ask, "Are you okay?"

The medic doesn't say anything. The hand that was holding the back of her head moves forward, grabs your shoulder and turns you until you're facing forward again. This time when you feel her behind you, she's fuming. Not at you, at least you don't think. She's angry with herself. You knew this would happen and being right has never tasted so bitter.

You're about to drown in your own dejected darkness when she that hand, still on your shoulder flinches. You freeze, unwilling to breathe, move, blink, anything. There's a tremor in her muscles, like she wants to squeeze your shoulder but can't find it in herself to do it. After a moment, she sort of pats you on the shoulder and takes back her hand.

"I'm sorry."

You dig your nail into the headrest and with the perfect imitation of confusion you toss over your shoulder, "For what, Sergeant? Did something happen?"

Out of the corner of her eye you watch her hand fall from her face. You almost wish you could see her expression but maybe it's a blessing that you can't. You've made your offer and you know she'll catch on.

"No, nothing, forget I said anything."

* * *

When you finally step off the bus gravel crunches under your feet, and you didn't know what to expect so this is a good as anything.

The sky is still dark. You can't see more than the floodlights, mounted and buzzing along high concrete walls, show you. The gravel and powdered sand glows white under the harsh lights, you're still not used to the rough texture of the air, and for a moment you fool yourself into thinking you've stepped onto the moon.

There are rows and rows of housing structures. They're long, round on top, like cutting a can in half and laying it on the ground. Platoon Sergeants are yelling out orders and directing traffic.

"Hey, Lopez, come on," SGT Anderson touches your shoulder as he passes and it pulls you back to the reality of your situation.

You pull your gear from under the bus just in time to hear SFC Fabray's voice cut through the nonsense, "Female tent is the last in the line! Number 70A! Drop your rucks and get back out here for weapons count!"

On your way towards the cylinder-tent-thing you fall into step with SPC Cohen-Chang, or rather, "It's just Chang now, right?"

She gives you a smile, one that you almost miss in the shadows cast by the floodlights, "Specialist Just-Chang, reporting for duty."

You laugh a little, holding the door open for her so she can slip through first. She mumbles her thanks and you follow into the brightly lit tent unit. The domelike walls weird you out for a second, but the floor is made of comforting sheets of plywood. You're more worried about the rows of cots lining each wall.

SPC Chang catches your eye and together you walk to a pair of cots along the left side of the side of the space tube. You don't know that much about her, but she doesn't seem like a crazy. You might as well have one good neighbor for the next week.

"Congratulations on the wedding," you grunt, heaving your rucksack onto the cot next to hers.

She smiles thinly, "You don't think I'm stupid for getting married right before a deployment?"

"He's a civilian right?" you try to remember everything you've seen or heard about the couple.

"Yeah."

You shrug, "I don't know, did it feel stupid?"

It's not really a comforting gesture. You can't help it. You feel very stupid right now, wanting what you can't have. It's easier to ask her all the questions you can't ask yourself.

"No," she shakes her head and you watch her eyes lose focus. She's back at that place, with him. "No, it didn't feel stupid at all."

"Then fuck everyone else."

She grins at that and you wish you can take the same advice.

More females push through the door and the docile sound of your Platoon Sergeant's voice makes you and SPC Chang realize that there is somewhere to be. Everyone who has already claimed a bunk is standing in formation outside. First Sergeant is standing in front of everyone, impatiently looking at her watch and yelling odd obscenities as people pass.

You take the long way to Third Platoon just to avoid her.

"Hey," Evans smiles when you take your spot next to him. "Long trip, huh?"

"I think I could sleep for the next three days," you admit, rubbing your eyes.

"I hear that," SGT Anderson steps in front of you both, his green notebook in hand. "Let me see your weapons, I want to confirm the serial numbers just in case something got switched in the trip."

Evans goes first and then you rattle off the serial number you practically have memorized by this point.

"And the rack number?"

You glance at the blue ink painted onto the buttstock of your weapon for easy identification, "Forty-seven, Sergeant."

He closes his book and gives you both a blanket warning about keeping track of your sensitive items. First Sergeant gets word that everyone is back in formation so she starts the brief. She tells you where the dining facility is, where the bathrooms and shower houses are, and which way the gym is. She tells you the rules, where you're allowed to go and when, and with whom.

"We're operating in battle buddy teams from this day forward, Titans. Females are preferred to pair with other females, but can be accompanied by two males during the day," she explains. "After dark, females will have a _female_ battle buddy at all times."

That's nothing new. The Army likes pairing everyone up to keep people honest, but you've heard enough horror stories that you're not running off on your own anytime soon. Finally, they release you from formation and tell you to get some sleep. Your sleeping bag sounds really awesome right now.

The igloo, as you've heard a few sergeants call it, is now filled with the company's twenty-some females. Private Motta has claimed the bunk on the other side of SPC Chang and you're glad for the buffer. You're already elbows deep in your rucksack when SFC Fabray and SSG Pierce walk through the door.

You keep your eyes down and try to figure out how you can pick out her particular footfalls though all the chatter and noise around you. Somehow you do, and you realize she's coming closer, and closer, and you don't even know what you were looking for anymore but your hands keep moving around your pack like your do.

She pauses, somewhere off to your left, maybe three feet, and you feel her hesitate.

So you look up.

The medic is standing at the end of the cot next to yours, grabbing the helmet on top of the stack of gear. She's grabbing it because it's hers, as is all the gear in the cot, because when they were telling everyone to dump your gear and get back outside she happened to pick that cot to throw her crap on.

The cot right next to yours.

Unsurprisingly, SFC Fabray is getting comfortable on the other side of SSG Pierce and talking to LT Berry who is in the very last cot in the row. All the senior females right in a nice little row in the corner. By all means she has a place there with them, but she's still hesitating. It's barely noticeable and only in the small way her eyebrows pinch together when she catches your eye.

She's asking if this is alright.

She's asking you if you're comfortable with this.

"You alright down there, Motta?" SSG Pierce asks her soldier easily, her face changing so smoothly into an everyday smile.

"I'm good, Sergeant," Motta calls back through a yawn.

SSG Pierce's eyes slide back to yours and you understand that she's making an offer. She has every right to bunk next to her best friend, and if you'd like, she has a legitimate reason to move so she can bunk near her soldier.

But you don't want that. You know the rules, you can follow them.

You trust yourself.

So in answer, you wrestle your sleeping bag out of your rucksack and ask, "Do you have any Tylenol, Sergeant?"

It's slow at first, her smile, starting with her eyes until her face can catch up. She tries to hide most of it by scratching her nose but it's no use.

"Yeah, I have some somewhere."

She's glad you want her to stay.

* * *

That night you'll lay awake in that dark tent.

You'll listen to the women sleep around you; the random shuffle in a cot, the chick from First Platoon who snores like a dude, and hushed whispers of friends that can't find sleep just yet.

Staring at the ceiling, you'll think of your mother and try to guess the odds of her thinking of you.

The tears will sting, itching when they crawl down the sides of your face to hide away in your hair. Your body is tired from the journey. Mind, heavy from the unknown. Your heart and the hope it might have felt once, is lost in the darkness of this tent.

She's not thinking of you and you can't bring yourself to believe otherwise.

* * *

"I feel like we're on Tatooine," Evans grumbles, squinting even behind his Oakley sunglasses.

It looks much different in the sunlight. The sand flying through the air and collecting along the sides of walls is a burnt golden color that looks just as dirty as it makes you feel. It's already eighty degrees and it's not even nine in the morning. The day started with a surprising lack of structure. SFC Fabray was still in her cot when you left for breakfast with Evans, dead to the world and missing a medic.

You've been looking for her.

She wasn't in the obscenely large dining facility where you ate breakfast and marveled at just how many soldiers were here in transit. When Evans and SGT Anderson needed to make a stop at the trailer that has been fashioned into a convenience store, she wasn't there either. It makes sense that you keep missing her, this camp is huge and the lines of tents stretch out until they disappear in a haze of sand.

"We don't have a timetable today, so just relax in the tents," SGT Anderson explains on the way back to your company's tents. "They're trying to give us time to adjust before we start going through the training centers set up around here."

"We have to do more training?" you've had enough with the PowerPoint's on IEDs and the Rules of Engagement. You could recite those policies in your sleep by now.

"I know," he gives you a sympathetic frown. "Really, it's only busy work so they can keep us here long enough to get used to the heat."

"We'll pick you up for lunch?" Evans asks when you get to their tent.

"Yeah, cool," you give them a halfhearted wave walk next door to the female tent.

When you step in the air conditioning is welcoming and you don't know how you're going to deal with this for the next year.

The women of your company are in hanging around in all states of consciousness. Some are still sleeping, others have come back from breakfast and are napping in their uniforms. Motta and Chang are watching a movie on a laptop and a few others are playing cards in the back corner of the tent. If this is going to be the next week, that's fine with you. Easy enough, right?

It's a relief to find SSG Pierce on her bunk with SFC Fabray, they're eating breakfast out of travel boxes that you suspect the medic retrieved while she was gone. LT Berry is sitting across from them with her own breakfast and they're all talking about the platoon's schedule for the week.

"I'm going to tell the Squad Leaders to get their people to the gym sometime tomorrow morning," SFC Fabray mentions to LT Berry. "We're going to have some down days but we can at least make sure people aren't getting fat."

The lieutenant doesn't like the harsh sentiment, "I think it will take a little longer than one week for the entire platoon to become obese."

A nap sounds as interesting as anything else going on here. You walk over to your cot, unzipping your uniform top as you go.

SFC Fabray isn't convinced, "Let's not test it, ma'am. I bet it would take less than a week for some of these guys."

"Says the girl that stole my hash browns," SSG Pierce teases offhandedly around her spoon.

As you get closer, her attention slides from her friend to your boots. You're still shrugging off your uniform top and hoping you were able to look away before she noticed that you were staring. Only now, you think she's staring. Goosebumps erupt on your arms and it's not the air conditioning. You've never felt exposed in your tan tee shirt, but she can make you feel like you're standing in your underwear.

Darkly, you want her to like what she sees, so you throw you uniform top over one shoulder and lift your hands to fix the hairband around your bun. The muscles in your arms might tighten just a little bit needlessly but you have no shame.

And when you throw a bored look around the tent, like you couldn't possibly be bothered by any of this deployment crap, you might notice how her spoon is still hanging out of her mouth and she doesn't even meet your eyes until you offer a simple, "Good morning, Sergeant."

Her teeth clamp tightly around her spoon and the tips of her ears pink when she mumbles, "Morning."

Finally slipping behind her field of view, you toss your jacket onto the foot of your cot and settle down for a nap with your back towards your leadership. Sleep doesn't come easy. It takes a while for your heart to settle down and even when you do drift off, you're sure you're still grinning.

* * *

Training, training, training.

Today's training site is in the middle of a gravel field and your platoon is spread out between a couple different stations, being tested on a few different training scenarios. It's interesting, but not anything you've never heard before. The only saving grace is that the instructors have been getting the most updated information there is because they're literally a stone's throw away from the front lines. So you listen and run through the motions with everyone else.

"My name is Staff Sergeant Ames," a man with a clipboard stands in front of your squad, "and I will be your instructor for the first segment of your medical lane, TC-Three or Tactical Combat Casualty Care."

You're jealous of him because he doesn't have to wear all his gear like you. Under your combat vest you've already started to sweat to the point of embarrassment and you're pretty sure your hands are getting pruney in your gloves. It's gross. This acclimatization thing is really just gross. After the short class, he explains the course, the goals of the training, and how you'll be graded. He splits the squad into two groups and directs you to the start point.

"To help save time, Sergeant Pierce will be grading Team B, on that side of the wall." He waves to the others, "Team A, you're with me over here."

You follow SGT Anderson and SPC Evans to the side of the concrete wall he was talking about and find her leaning against the other side. She has her own clipboard tucked under her arm as she adjusts the strap of her helmet.

She smiles when she notices your team, "You guys ready for this?"

Everyone gives their own version of affirmation and you wish you could see her eyes behind her sunglasses.

"Alright, I hope you were paying attention because I'm not going easy on you," she takes up her clipboard and clicks her pen. "Let's get started. Sergeant Anderson, the floor is yours."

He nods and turns to the group, "Okay, following along with the scenario, our objective is a routine foot patrol down this given road."

He points down the alley created by two walls of concrete dividers, in the middle there are a few crates and smaller barriers about waist high. You suspect that's where the all the drama is going to happen. The team gets on line and starts to patrol down the road.

"Make sure you keep your spacing," SGT Anderson reminds everyone. "Five paces in front and behind."

Off to the side, SSG Pierce follows along, scribbling something down on her clipboard. When the first of your team is starting to make it to the barriers the grip on your rifle tightens. Just like every training scenario you've ever had, this is where she plays her card. SSG Pierce doesn't disappoint.

"Bang, bang, small arms fire from an unknown location," she says it so calmly, but everyone in the team start running at a sprint immediately.

You skid to a position behind a barrier with SGT Anderson, taking low cover and wondering, "Where's Evans?"

He was the last man in the line and when you peek over the barrier with your team leader, you find him lying in the middle of the road.

"Help, help," he twitches a little, SSG Pierce standing off his shoulder, "I've been shot."

"Return fire," SGT Anderson instructs without pause. "Stay low, shout out any visible movement."

Responding to the verbal cue, your instructor gives you more information.

"Three military aged males are spotted in the windows of an apartment complex to your left," SSG Pierce points at the wall and you all shift your fire to match the location.

The men of your team erupt into a chorus of, "Bang bang!"

"Evans can you hear me?" you yell at him from behind the barrier.

He looks at SSG Pierce and when she nods he answers, "Yeah!"

"Can you shoot back and or apply self-aid?" you're reciting the script that's been engrained into your head from the classes after classes on this stuff. SSG Pierce tells him something but you can't hear it and he doesn't answer you. With a huff you tell your sergeant, "I think Evans lost consciousness."

"Evans!" SGT Anderson tries for a show. "Bang bang, Evans!"

"Enemy fire has been repressed," SSG Pierce calls out from down the lane.

"Lopez, we're up," the team leader nudges your shoulder. "You get the tourniquet, I'll cover you. Everyone keep weapons on the last known sighting of the hostiles, Lopez and I are grabbing Evans."

You follow his lead, seamlessly moving around the barrier and rushing over to Evans. Your hand is already fishing a standard Army Combat Action Tourniquet out of a pocket on your vest. When you get to Evans you drop to your knees beside him, set your rifle aside and mime sweeping his body for blood stains.

"You find one bullet wound in his left lower thigh, just above his knee cap," SSG Pierce prompts calmly from somewhere behind your shoulder.

SGT Anderson kneels on the other side of Evans' body, back towards you and weapon pointing towards the last known threat. You rip apart the end of the large Velcro strap that makes this tourniquet and slip it under the highest point of your friend's thigh. Your hands shake a bit, because you're trying to move as fast as you can, knowing if this was real he would be losing more and more blood with every second that you waste.

Securing the end of the tourniquet down onto the Velcro you crank it down as hard as you can in a training environment. When that's finished you can't help the grin that comes to your face, knowing you're doing this all right. You just might have saved your friend's life if this was real. Now it's time to get back to cover so you reach over for your rifle and—

It's not there.

You turn on your knees, eyes searching the ground because you could swear you put it right beside you.

The knock against your helmet is hard enough to sit you on your ass. You look up through a grimace. SSG Pierce is holding your weapon by the handgrip, the buttstock floating a few inches from the top of your head.

"Did that hurt?" she asks with a tight frown.

You don't answer her, you can't really say anything, but your hands clench around chalky gravel pieces until it hurts. She's upset with you. She's stolen your rifle and you've let her down.

"Think about how badly it would hurt if I had really tried," she rests the rifle's buttstock against your helmet and pushes down until you understand the weight of not only the weapon you failed to maintain, but the gravity of your mistake. "And what if I had used the other end?"

She flips the rifle around in her hand and, while she keeps the barrel pointed well away from you and the other soldiers—someone standing over you with a semiautomatic, the image is frightening. Your breath is short, jaw locked tightly, and you feel like such an idiot. A failure.

"Now who's protecting Anderson's back?" SSG Pierce nods up to your team leader. "Now who's going to save Evans?"

Now you didn't just make yourself look incompetent, you may have killed your team. Your shame turns angry.

This isn't fair, she's an instructor, an observer. She's not supposed to be acting as the enemy. Carefully, you start, "Sergeant, I didn't think—"

The medic cuts you off with wave of her clipboard, "You didn't think someone could come up behind you, Lopez?"

You open your mouth to say no one could possibly come up behind you when there are no real enemies in the training scenario. You close your mouth when you realized how moronic that sounds. She sees that you figured it out so she moves onto her next point.

"Did you think one of your teammates would tell you if an insurgent was about to steal your weapon?"

Again, you don't have an answer. You can't say for sure that you had been counting on your teammates; honestly you had never considered the possibility that your weapon could be stolen.

She turns to the rest of the squad by the barriers and raises her voice enough to really be heard, "Two of you watched me reach for your battle's rifle and no one said a thing."

A scorching wind passes through the alley and you've never seen her like this, hardened by armor and haunting truths.

"Because this is only training, right? Just a game? Check the block?" she waits for a response but no one has anything to say. "Sergeant Anderson, did you assume that because the enemy fire came from the left wall, there was no threat from the right one? Not one of your men is covering the right wall."

He concedes to that point, having never established a rear security, "Yes, Sergeant."

SSG Pierce slings your weapon over her shoulder and jots down a few notes on her clipboard. Without even looking at you she says, "So you're dead, Lopez. Anderson, continue the drill."

"Yes, Sergeant."

She walks away, footfalls scratchy in the gravel. You notice she still has her 4th ID patches on her helmet and you think they have more meaning than sentimental value to her. Slowly you lay down next to Evans and let out a frustrated huff, "Fabray is going to kill me."

He sends you a sideways smile, "Good thing you're already dead then, huh?"

You swing your arm over to punch him and he stifles a laugh, no one wants to test the medic's patience any more than they already have.

"My leg's asleep," he whispers over to you as the rest of the squad starts rallying to rescue him and collect your body.

"Deal with it, Evans."

You know he's trying to screw around because you feel like an idiot, and SGT Anderson kind of slipped up, but you don't have it in you to laugh right now. The sun is too hot and the gravel is uncomfortable.

Soon your squad is surrounding you, catching you by the arms and dragging you to safety. The rest of the drill goes as well as it could, Evans is considered to be stabilized when he's evacuated and no one else was killed. SSG Pierce tells everyone to sit in the shade box, a plywood shelter that looks more like a bus stop than anything, and pulls the NCOs aside. You, Evans, and the other soldiers watch her give them their score cards.

Private First Class (PFC) Hudson, a soldier the size of a linebacker with all the brilliance of a leaking sandbag, kicks the wall next to him, "That was bullshit. NCOs only pull that shit to feel all good about themselves for teaching us a lesson."

"We're you one of the guys that watched her take Lopez's rifle?" Evans asks before you can say whatever ridiculous overreaction that was on the tip of your tongue, "because that was really cool of you, way to be a team player."

Hudson doesn't get to respond because the NCOs are on their way back for the closing brief. SSG Pierce explains the things everyone did wrong, she praises the things everyone did right, and she tells you all to drink water. Then she turns to you.

"Lopez, could you follow me for a second?"

She asks nicely like you're doing her a favor. Evans gives you a sympathetic grimace when you stand from you spot in the shade to meet the medic. No matter how much you had been dreading this moment, you refuse to be a coward about it. You'll keep your head up and walk over to her like she isn't about to crush your soul.

Scratching the back of her neck, she moves to the other side of the plywood shack that everyone is using for shade. It gives this conversation the illusion of privacy and that makes it so much more uncomfortable. You put your hands behind your back to stand at parade rest and wait.

SSG Pierce keeps her voice low, "I need you to listen to me for a second."

You don't think you're capable of ignoring her. You nod to let her know you understand. She takes your weapon from off her shoulder. She doesn't hand it over just yet, instead she takes off her Oakley's and looks at you. Her eyes squint against the sun, wrinkling a little at the corners as her focus shifts back and forth between your eyes. There's burden behind her expression that you can't begin to understand—you're not sure you want to.

"We're not playing paintball anymore, Lopez," she prods one of the ammunition pouches on your vest and the metal clinks as a dull reminder of that, "the rounds in this magazine are very real."

"I know, Serge—"

"No, you don't," her eyes flash, "and you won't until—"

She pinches the bridge of her nose. She's irritated, and you want to crawl into a bunker and never come out. After a breath she hands you back your weapon. It's never felt so heavy.

"That one time, back at the shoot house, I told you I didn't want to scare you," SSG Pierce whispers it, rubbing her arm and looking at the concrete wall, "but maybe I should have. Training with make believe only does so much, I'd scare the hell out of you if it meant keeping you alive. I don't… want to see you get hurt."

It's what any NCO should want for their soldier, to instill a sense of self-preservation, realism to this surreal concept of war. It should sound like an act duty and a professional criticism. So why do her words feel like so much more than that? Why do the muscles in your chest tighten and your hair stand on end. Her words are laced with significance beyond sensible advice. There's a shadow of something softer behind them—something special.

Then you realize that she's taking this _personally._ She's taking your mistake personally because she's worried about you.

She _cares_ about you. In some way, in any way, this is enough.

It feels like a trance and it feels so tangible all at once. This idea, your dream, manifesting into this look she's giving you—like she couldn't ever teach you enough, because she would take it so personally if something were to happen to you. A sensation warmer than the desert sun fills your chest and you ribs strain against your ballistic vest with the swell of your heart.

In the same breath of hope, the restricting nature of this armor is a stifling reminder of your situation. Motivations aside, it's her job to want to keep you alive as it's your job to follow orders. And you can do that, you will follow her lead.

As a promise to her, "It won't happen again, Sergeant."

She nods, rubbing her arm again with an absentminded frustration, eyes still entirely focused on the wall. When her sleeve is pushed up past her wrist from the force of her scratching you notice the odd spots covering her arms. Tiny red dots that clash horribly with her natural skin tone.

"Hey, are you okay?" you touch her elbow thoughtlessly before pulling away, worried that you've crossed a boundary.

SSG Pierce tenses like she's allergic to you, her eyes squeeze shut and her nails rake against her sleeves. Through gritted teeth she explains, "Heat rash, I get heat rash real bad the first couple of months I'm here."

"That sucks," you notice a few red dots creeping along her collar.

She gives you a tortured laugh, still tense from your conversation, crossing her arms over her chest to keep from scratching anymore, "They um, the squads have to rotate out so..."

"Right."

When she turns around the corner, you witness the strangest thing. You watch her shoulders straighten and her chin set, the effortless way she slips her sunglasses back on as she directs the NCOs in your squad to move everyone to the next testing site. Her command voice is direct, assured and nothing like the fragile way she was just asking you to be careful.

You just watched her change into Staff Sergeant Pierce.

So, who were you talking to?


End file.
